Souls Entwined
by TheXYZ
Summary: Kyle and Stan are best friends living in Germany, right before the outbreak of World War Two. Stan has feelings for Kyle and protects him from the Gestapo. Cartman, a Nazi, saves Kyle's life- and likes him? Not in S Park, but destinies- and souls- entwine
1. The Calm before the Storm

The streets were empty and gray, mirroring the sky

A/N: Okay, peoples!! Here it is- my AU South Park fic!! DUMDUMDUMDUM

I know this idea will be kinda hard to get. It's basically Stan, Cartman, and Kyle, back in World War Two. It's a love triangle- and boyxboy, so if you don't like that, don't read. This chappie isn't slashy and is kinda boring, but the next chapters will be better. I promise. This will be a really cool fic.

Btw- all the occurrences and non-south park people in this fic are real, historical people and events. Just a fun fact. 

The streets were empty and gray, mirroring the sky. The whole _world_ seemed to be drowning in deep depression, and it seemed to Kyle as if he wasn't the only one who knew that. Every passer by's face was angry, or nervous, or pissed.

Wouldn't anybody smile? What was up with Germany, anyway? Kyle had moved there from America in 1928, when he had been seven- a full nine years ago. Then, Germany had been recovering from World War One. It hadn't been the happiest place, but it had never been like this.

Kyle pulled his jacket tighter. It was very chilly. He really had to stop walking to school and start riding his bike, but he couldn't help himself- his best friend, Stan Marsh, lived in the dingy alleyways of downtown, where no bike could pass through. And he wasn't about to give up going to school with Stan just because of the cold.

Suddenly he gulped. A man in a crisp brown uniform was striding by- an officer of the SA, more commonly known as a Storm Trooper. He could tell the man was pretty high up by the bright red cloth with the black swastika displayed prominently on his arm and the various gold medals pinned to his front breast pockets.

After last week's 'Bloody Sunday' riots in his hometown of Berlin, even the sight of a swastika made his blood run cold. His uncle had been injured in the riots. Kyle still remembered how he had staggered into the Broflovski's gargantuan mansion, spilling blood onto the plush, pristine white carpet. Kyle had only caught a glimpse of his uncle's mangled face before his mother let out a shriek and his father pushed Kyle and Ike out of the way, ordering them to go to their rooms.

Kyle shuddered at the memory and tried to push it away. But instead, his eyes set on the Storm Trooper walking placidly in front of him, and he stared in an odd fascination. Did this man really hate him? …But how could he? He had never even _met_ Kyle. How could you hate someone before you even met them?

Kyle didn't even realize he had passed Stan's door, so intent was he on the Storm Trooper. It was only Stan's voice, loud and ringing, that shook him out of his stupor.

"Kyle! Kyle!"

He spun around, embarassed. Stan was running to catch up with him, his black hair flying and his brown jacket unbuttoned and trailing behind him.

"Are you ditching me already?" asked Stan good naturedly. "You completely ignored me, I was calling your name for ages…"

"Oh. Sorry, dude. I was spacing out."

"Dude. No problem, dude," responded Stan, and the two laughed. Stan was constantly poking fun at Kyle's habit of using the word 'dude.' But Kyle couldn't help it- every time he spoke his boyhood language of English, which was usually only to Stan, who spoke it at home, he took advantage of using the word. It made him feel so… _American._

A comfortable silence washed over them. The two fell in step, walking side by side.

"Kyle?" said Stan finally, breaking the silence.

"Hmm?"

"Would… would you judge someone for something they can't help? Something they were… maybe born with, or just grew into?"

Kyle looked at him, bewildered. "If you're talking about being Jewish-"

"Oh, no, of course not!" said Stan hastily. "I mean- if someone told you something about themselves that most people look down upon, would you judge that person?"

"Would it be something like killing.. or drugs?"

"No. Not- not like that."

Kyle's expression softened. "No, of course I wouldn't. I don't judge people, Stan."

Stan didn't respond, but Kyle saw him let out a breath Kyle hadn't noticed he had been holding. Relief was clearly written in his bright blue eyes.

"Stan?" he said softly after a while, when the other boy remained quiet. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

Stan turned a delicate shade of pink. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "Yeah- of course I know."

Kyle nodded and flashed him a smile. Stan returned the grin.

"Oh- did you do your homework? I didn't fin-"

Kyle wasn't paying attention. Stan seemed to notice this, as he stopped mid-sentence and followed the redhead's gaze.

Kyle's eyes were glued to a storefront. In the window, a large poster hung. A drawing of a rotting, graying face of a man with an oversized nose graced it, along with a picture of a louse and large block letters that read "ZYOZI WISZY- TYFUS PLAMISTY," Polish for 'Jews are lice- they cause typhus.'

Kyle's eyes widened, and he stood stock still, stung. And also a little… afraid. He was noticing these signs for a while now. And while his father told him it was nothing, he saw the glances his mother shot her husband when they thought he wasn't looking. They were fearful glances, looks that hardly meant 'nothing' was going on. Gerald Broflovski had already lost his job as a lawyer, and, while the family was very rich and could live comfortably for the rest of their lives without work, the very fact that his father had been forced to retire becathuse he was Jewish scared Kyle. And their were already talks, more-than-whispers about the camps- dreadful places they sent mostly Jews, along with handfuls of gypsies and gays, to be worked and then slaughtered.

Stan started talking soothingly. "Kyle- don't worry, it was probably some sicko who hung that up. It's fine. Don't be af-"

"I'm not afraid. And it's not fine."

Kyle saw Stan look at him sympathetically and frowned. He hated pity.

"I'm okay. We had better hurry or we'll be late for school."

Stan nodded his understanding and the two quickened their pace, Kyle's eyes set determinedly on the ground. He did not look anywhere else until they reached the drab brown

building that served as their school.

Kyle and Stan walked past the sign declaring the place to be the 'Berlin School for Boys' and entered the building. They elbowed their way past the crowded hallways, not stopping until they reached their classroom. Stan made his way to the front and dumped his bag on the floor, while Kyle headed for the back, where he sat.

He felt hurt stab at him again. He was Jewish, so he had to sit in the back of the class with the rest of the Jewish kids. Not that there were many left; most had gotten frustrated with the racism of German schooling and had switched to strictly Jewish schools. But the Broflovskis were very intent upon not being threatened by anyone, and Kyle's mother had continued to send her two sons to German schools in defiance.

_Why do I have to sit in the back?_ He thought bitterly. _I'm a straight A student. Everyone knows I'm a model student. So why?_

_Why, why, why?_

But he knew why. It was made very clear.

He shook his head and cleared his thoughts. It was Monday today- he had a meeting with the rest of the members of the Baum Group today. The Baum group was a Jewish resistance group, founded by a young couple, Herbert and Marianne Baum. Kyle had been a member even in the group's incipient stages, in '36- last year. He had been a little frightened boy, barely fifteen. But 'The Germans don't seem to care how young they're killing us,' he could hear Marianne say in her fiery voice. Nobody cared how young he was, as long as he was willing to fight. And he was.

The group met weekly in the Baum's home to discuss politics and plot strategy. Members also informed and educated Jews about important matters and developments. Kyle knew that although it wasn't much, the group definitely did it's job in being a pain in the Gestapo's ass.

He couldn't wait.

* * *

The room was small and cramped, overflowing with documents and files. There was just enough room for the twenty or so members to sit, squeezed in between assorted paraphernalia. There was no natural light, as the room's windows were boarded up to prevent anybody looking in. Instead, there was a small oil lamp sitting on the bare table, giving off a dim yellow light that cast eerie shadows on the members' young faces.

Kyle was sitting right next to Herbert himself, as he was a trusted, active member of the group. His eyes were sharp and piercing as they roved over everybody's faces, smiling occasionally at someone he recognized.

When the last person filed in, Herbert got up from his chair and poured himself a drink. Presently, he started to speak.

"A right-wing labor party, _Stronnictwo Pracy_, has been established in Poland. It is virulently anti-semitic. Please, inform any relatives in Poland of the party. Make sure they know who their enemies are."

Herbert took a swig from his glass and wiped his mouth with his hand. His deep voice was sometimes a little frightening, but his youthful face was warm. He was not menacing in the least, with his deep set eyes, finely shaped lips, and slightly large ears. His dark hair was straight and combed back, and now he ran his hand through it, apparently a bit anxious. Kyle noted this with growing anticipation. That probably meant they were going to do something big.

"Also, in Hungary Ferenc Szálasi set up the _Nyilaskeresztes Part-Hunagrista Mozgalom_, or the Arrow Cross Movement. It is dedicated to anti-Semitism. They are rioting, shooting, and publishing anti-Semitic newspapers. Again, tell any Hungarian relatives to be wary."

That couldn't be what he was so nervous about, Kyle thought. There had to be something else.

"Friends," said Herbert after a short pause. _Here it comes_, thought Kyle. "Some of you may have noticed that our good friend, Hella Gryn, is not here today."

Kyle started. Hella? The spunky fourteen year old with the bright blonde hair? He hadn't noticed her absence. But now that he looked around, he realized she wasn't there.

_This is what has Herbert nervous,_ he immediately understood. _We're not going to do anything._

"We regret to inform you all that… Hella. She's dead."

A collective gasp rose up from all the members. Kyle heard Marianne sniffle. After a minute, she wasn't the only one. Men as well as ladies were pulling handkerchiefs out, dabbing at their eyes.

Kyle felt sorrow rise up within him as one dark haired man whispered, "Baruch dayan haemes." God is the true judge. A sentence said by Jews when informed of someone's death.

Kyle's eyes started to well up. Hella had been particularly bright, he remembered with a pang. She had also been very pretty… very German looking, with bright blonde hair and electric blue eyes. She liked to say that God had given her Aryan looks just so that she could prove to the German bastards that they were wrong about Jews all being ugly and big nosed and dark haired.

"How?" a lady asked. "How did she die?"

"She acted foolishly," said Herbert quietly. "She broke into the store selling copies of _Der Sturmher_ and started to set it on fire."

Kyle gasped. _Der Sturmher_ was an anti-Semitic, vile, base newspaper bordering on pornography, that published outright lies about Jews. And while he could see how Hella chose the store as her target, didn't she know that the newspaper was a Nazi favorite? The store was watched day and night. It was even rumored to be bugged. Breaking in was out of the question. It was insane.

A lone tear ran down his cheek as Herbert continued talking, telling everyone about how the SS had burst in on Hella and had dragged her through the streets, kicking her to the center of town, where they brutally murdered her by first riddling her arms and legs with bullets before finally shooting her fatally in the head.

He hastily tried to wipe the tear away. However, after a while he gave up, and just let the tears flow freely. He watched as several other member did the same.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Kyle looked up to find Herbert standing by him, his dark eyes understanding. _I feel your pain,_ his eyes seemed to say. _And I'm with you. We'll be fine, you'll see._

_No, we won't_, thought Kyle suddenly. Rage bubbled inside of him. Whoever could torture Hella so cruelly… whoever could kill an innocent fourteen year old girl like that was messed up. They were murderers, and they were dangerous.

_No, we won't be fine._

* * *

"Get out of Germany, you dirty Jew," came a loud voice from behind him. Kyle's breath caught in his throat and he turned to see a dark haired German youth in uniform standing confidently, a hand lightly resting on his hip. He was obviously a member of the Hitler Youth.

Kyle pressed his lips together and ran his hands through his red curls, trying to control his mounting rage.

"You heard what I said," the boy said belligerently. "You fucking Jews should all leave. And you know what? You people know it, too. You know you're dirt- that's why you're not answering me. You stupid Jew rat."

Kyle couldn't contain his rage anymore. He let out a scream and fell on the boy, pummeling him with his fists, raining down blows hard and fast. The boy gasped in surprise and tried to fight back, but he was no match for Kyle. Fear leapt into his eyes, and he seemed taken aback. He started yelling in panic.

Almost instantly police swarmed around Kyle, forcing him off the boy and helping the boy up. They pushed Kyle to the floor and drew their guns, aiming at him.

This is it, thought Kyle wildly. They're going to kill me. Just like Hella. Herbert will tell everyone in the group and that will be it.

He braced himself for the impending shots, screwing up his eyes tight. Any second now…

"No!" said the dark haired boy loudly. The police officers paused and turned to the Hitler Youth, their looks questioning.

"It's fine," the boy said. "He's with me. I'm taking the dirty Jew in for questioning. It's taken care of."

"Are you sure?" asked an officer, eyeing Kyle disdainfully.

The boy nodded confidently. Kyle felt his jaw drop open. The boy lied so naturally.

Wait- why was he lying in the first place? The Hitler wannabe had just _saved his life!_

Why?

He hated Jews, that was for sure. He had verbally abused Kyle because he has seen the yellow star of David Kyle was forced to wear. There was no logical explanation for him to save Kyle from being shot down like a dog. After all, Kyle had just attacked him. So why…?

It had to be God, Kyle thought after a while. There was no other way to explain what just happened.

The police officers gave him one last kick and started to leave. Kyle got up from his position on the floor and dusted himself off with dignity. An awkward silence fell.

"Why did you do that?" Kyle finally asked, not one to beat around the bush.

"What do you mean, Jew?" asked the boy. He was obviously humoring him.

"Don't play games with me," Kyle spat. "I hate you, you hate me. So why the hell did you just save me?"

"If you're that upset, I can kill you. I merely thought to save your dirty little ass. I regret it already."

Kyle shot him a look of pure hate, but didn't make any comment. Silence fell again.

"So that's it? I'm free to go?"

The boy looked at him disdainfully and nodded. Then he seemed to soften for a minute.

"I'm Eric Cartman," he said. Kyle gaped at him, He was actually being… civil?

After a minute of staring at the boy, unsure of his motivations, Kyle threw all caution to the winds.

"I'm Kyle Broflovski," he said.

A strange emotion passed over the boy's face. "I know," he said, and then turned and walked off into the night.€


	2. The End of Illusions

A/N: ANOTHER CHAPPIE

A/N: ANOTHER CHAPPIE!! YAAAYYYY! 

Hehe. I took a really long time writing this, considering I actually knew what I was going to write about before I started… usually it just hits me as I type. Improv. It's a vital part of my life. xD

Oh- quick one thing. At one point in this chapter you will see a random paragraph closed in by --dashes--. That's a quick POV switch to Eric, just because it was really important but totally out of place. Oh, and there's a lot of SWEARING in this chapter. If that bothers you, DON'T READ. Do I make myself clear?? is being mean and Professor McGonagall-ish

ENJOY!! I hope.

* * *

Herbert was sitting on his couch, his feet firmly planted on the floor before him, his back slumped and his eyes purposeful. Kyle stood pensively in the entranceway, his fingers bending and straightening nervously. Why was Herbert calling him to talk to him privately? Had he done something wrong? …No, that couldn't be.

Herbert finally looked up at him and met his eyes. "Bad news," he said softly. "Bad news."

"What?" choked Kyle. God, he could barely breathe, he was so anxious. Herbert didn't scare him… but the things Herbert usually ended up saying did.

"Sit down, Broflovski," Herbert said formally, but his eyes were kind. "And ease up, you haven't done anything wrong."

Kyle let out a long rattling breath and dropped onto the couch clumsily. Bad news was still bad news, whether it concerned Kyle himself or not.

Herbert remained silent for a few long minutes before finally speaking. "Did you see the headlines today?"

"Yeah."

"Yesterday, November seventh, a young Jew, understandably enraged by his family's expulsion from Germany, went into the German Embassy in Paris and shot a junior diplomat. The diplomat died."

Kyle's mouth suddenly felt very dry. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Herbert got up abruptly. "That story has increased anti-Semitism considerably. I'm not going to beat around the bush, Broflovski. We're almost in the worst position we can be in right now. We're up to our necks."

"…oh." Kyle decided he wasn't going to play games either. "So what does this have to do with me?"

Herbert favored him with a quick, fiery smile. "I just need you to be alert. I… don't want to think about it, but if- if a mass riot breaks out, I need to know I have someone to rely on."

"Rely on for what?" asked Kyle bluntly.

"To keep on fighting," said Herbert just as frankly. "Marianne and I, we know a woman willing to hide Jews- a truly righteous gentile woman Marianne met in college a few years ago. I've arranged friends to go there in case… anything happens. Right now I'm working around the clock to try and find hideouts for other Jews. But if I can't… I'm not going into hiding."

Kyle made to interrupt Herbert, but the man held up a hand and continued talking.

"It's not up for discussion. My mind is made up." His tone softened. "I know you, Broflovski. You can protect yourself. You're a fighter. If there is a riot or something similar, I don't want you to think. I want you to keep your cool and hide yourself. We need to know that whatever happens, there's going to be at least one person left I can trust to stay and fight."

Kyle opened his mouth, but Herbert silenced him again.

"Please, Kyle. We need you. _I_ need you."

It was the first time Herbert had called him by his first name before, and that touched Kyle in a way he couldn't explain. All his objections faded away and he nodded weakly.

"Good man," said Herbert, smiling and slapping him on the back in friendly way. Kyle smiled back. Herbert was a good man, even if he did let his fears get ahead of him sometimes. Because a mass riot couldn't _really_ happen. Not here.

Not in Berlin.

* * *

"Kyle?" Stan whispered softly, knocking on his best friend's bedroom door. "Kyle?"

Kyle looked up from his book to see Stan entering his room.

"Your mother let me in. Do- do you have a minute?" Stan asked timidly.

Kyle stared at him. "Sure, dude. What's up?"

Stan fearfully glanced around at Kyle's spacious, well furnished room.

"Can you hear through the walls in your house?"

"No, we have good insulation. Why?"

Stan didn't meet Kyle's eyes. "I just- I kind of need your help with something."

"What kind of thing?"

Stan rocked on the balls of his feet anxiously. "It's just… something's bothering me, and I need to tell someone, because I'm terrified. And- you're the only person I can talk to."

"What about your parents?"

Stan shuddered. "Oh- no. No, definitely not my parents."

Kyle looked at him curiously. "Well, sure, dude, you can tell me anything. I just don't know if I'll be able to help."

"It's not that kind of help," said Stan quickly. "I just need to… get it off my chest. I need advice. Nothing more."

"Okay, sounds good," Kyle said, leaning back on his bed and motioning Stan to sit down next to him. "Start talking."

A short silence fell. Stan seemed to be collecting his thoughts. Kyle watched, eyebrows raised. Finally Stan took a deep breath.

"Kyle-" he said. "Kyle. I think I'm gay."

Kyle kept his face still, even though he felt like dropping his jaw. Stan? _Gay?_

"It's no big deal, Stan," he said after a while. "I mean, you're still the same person. You're still my best friend. I won't judge you, it's totally fine with me. I mean, I think everyone is a little bit gay, so-"

"That's not it," said Stan desperately, cutting of Kyle in the midst off his ramblings. "I knew you wouldn't judge me, Ky, because that's the kind of person you are. That's not the point. It's the SS. I- I _can't_ be gay, or they'll ship me off to a camp." Stan's lips quivered. Kyle quickly got up from his lying position and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry, dude, you don't have to _tell_ anyone you're queer."

Kyle noticed Stan's drawn, fearful face calm when he said 'dude.' He felt a sudden rush of affection for his best friend, even if said best friend was gay. It wasn't like he himself hadn't ever had gay thoughts now and then. Everyone did, he was sure.

Stan leaned into Kyle heavily and groaned. "I know, I know. But now I always feel like they're after me. Every time I see a brown uniform, I jump half a mile. Every time I see a swastika, I shudder."

Kyle smiled sadly. "Funny, this sounds familiar."

"I know. That's why I told you. I knew you would understand."

Kyle tightened his hand around Stan's shoulders. "I _do_ understand."

Stan smiled wanly, and his eyes fluttered closed. He fell into a semi sleep on Kyle chest. Kyle raised his eyebrows. Stan must have been really drained to fall asleep like that. It was unnerving, really, to see the ever-masculine Stan fall apart like this. Kyle had always been the more emotional of the two.

_Poor Stan, _Kyle thought miserably. He understood what he was going through, perhaps better than anyone else.

_Why should innocent Stan have to suffer too?_

* * *

_Boom._

_Crash. Bang. Boom._

_Boom._

"Dirty Jews!"

Hurried footsteps. Splintering glass. Loud voices.

"Seig heil! Long live Hitler! Death to Jews! Death to the race defilers!"

A lone boy separated from the masses and darted past the heavy decorative metal gates surrounding the Broflovski mansion. He slipped into the house- he had always been good at picking locks- and ran up the grand staircase.

Fucking Jews sure have a lot of money, he thought. Stealing it from poor Germans. Dirty rats.

He didn't know WHY he was doing what he was. Let the bloody boy and his family die! Why in the world did he care about the stupid jewboy?

He reached the landing. Panting, he peeked through the first door on the right. A little boy with a shock of black hair was curled up on a big bed, surrounded by pillows.

The boy's lips curled into a smile. He didn't care about THAT Jew. The fucking bastard could go to hell. He continued walking down the hall. God this place had a lot of doors. But the Broflovskis only had four people in their family! How many stupid rooms could four people take up?

He finally caught sight of a flash of red through one of the doors. He entered quietly, stealthily.

Kyle was sleeping soundly, covers pulled up to his chin. His eyebrows were creased and his mouth was in a pout, like he could somehow sense what was going on outside.

The boy stared at Kyle for a while, at his pale skin and red curls spread out over his pillow. Then he heard the frenzied screams from outside and decided it was high time to do what he had come to do.

He leaned forward and roughly shook the sleeping boy awake. The boy's eyes flew open, like he had been expecting the Nazi youth all along.

"Wha-"

"Get up."

"Who-" Silence. "_Eric_?"

Eric stopped short and looked at Kyle with mixed emotions. The boy had called him Eric… just like Eric's mother.

_Nobody ever calls me Eric,_ he thought. _Everyone knows me as the Cartman kid. Except Mother._

_And… Kyle?_

He viewed the Jew in new light now, even if the boy hadn't consciously called him Eric. Because of course, Kyle couldn't have possibly known to call him the Cartman kid… it stood to reason that he would call Eric by his first name.

But still. He felt good about what he was doing now.

"Yes," he said shortly. "Yes. It's Eric. You have to get up now."

Kyle sat bolt upright. "Why? What's happening?"

The screams and shots were loud now. A look of fear passed over Kyle's face.

"Eric, what the hell is going on?"

Eric didn't answer him. Instead, he grabbed Kyle's wrist and twisted it.

"I'm doing you a favor, Jew," he hissed menacingly. "Now do as I say or very soon you'll be dead."

It felt good to be the bad guy again, not just a Jew saving pussy. He saw Kyle's face flush in anger, and then pale in fear as the yells outside grew louder. Finally the boy nodded weakly.

Eric let go of the hand, but not after some regret.

"Now come," he said, and strode out of the room. Kyle followed, although there was definite loathing on his face. Eric almost felt a pang of remorse. Almost.

But not quite.

* * *

Kyle's eyes widened in fear as Eric led him quietly through the back alleys of Berlin. Crashes, high pitched shrieks, and shattering glass could be heard throughout the city. Kyle shuddered and pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his thin body.

Pure dread filled him. His mother and father were at home, sleeping, with Ike… the bastards would hurt them. As rich Jews, they would make perfect targets for racist sons of bitches.

"Eric. What the FUCK is going on?" he asked forcefully.

"Keep your mouth shut and follow me."

"No godamnit!" Kyle yelled. Tears filled up his eyes. He did his best to wipe them away, but they were coming down too fast. He saw Eric stare at him and nearly died of mortification. Oh, great. A fucking _Nazi_ had to see him cry.

Because that was what Eric Cartman was. A Nazi. No matter how many times he saved Kyle. He had to have some ulterior motive, because no GOOD person would rescue one boy and leave said boy's innocent little brother and parents to the mercy of whoever was out there causing all those heart rending yells. Eric probably wanted to torture him… yes. It was genius. Save the jewboy so that he would live and see all his friends and family die around and finally get so depressed he would commit suicide. A perfect plot.

"Kyle-" said the boy quietly, softly, with only a hint of disdain in his voice. But Kyle was too far gone.

"Don't you fucking 'KYLE' me, you GODAMN ASSHOLE!" He shouted, and punched Eric square in the face. "Shut the FUCK UP, you FUCKING son of a bitch BASTARD! My family is dying out there and all you can FUCKING say is 'keep your mouth shut, Kyle!' or 'follow me, Kyle!' WELL, I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! Tell me what's going on now or I'm GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"

--Eric blanched, staring in an odd combination of fear, remorse, and wonder at the furious boy's face. He felt a tightening in his chest and a hardening somewhere down south.

_Oh, shit,_ he thought. _I'm not a freaking gaywad! I can't be a queer-mo. I can't…_

_I am. Oh, kill me. Kill me now_.--

Eric face suddenly blanked and an odd expression crossed his face. It looked strangely like penitence. Kyle kept his fist raised, his breathing ragged. If the dirty bastard was playing a trick on him, playing the innocent game… he would kill him.

A minute later, Eric regained his normal confident expression and straightened himself from his cowering position. He arched his brows and surveyed Kyle calculatingly. Kyle felt himself shudder. His gaze was piercing.

"Alright, Jew," Eric said calmly. "I'll tell you what's going on. Okay? There was a mass riot planned for the morning of November tenth in response to the shooting by that fag in Paris. Today is November tenth."

"What?" Kyle's brain didn't process.

"Right now, 1:00 AM, everywhere in the Third Reich, German citizens- along with Nazis- are going around crashing Jewish storefronts and breaking into homes. Do you want the details?"

Kyle's face drained of all color. "Herbert…" he whispered, his eyes widening.

"_What did you call me?"_

"Herbert. He was right," said Kyle dully, leaning against the wall of the alley.

"Who's Herbert?"

Kyle brought himself back to his senses. Cartman was a Nazi! He couldn't just go saying Herbert's name… what kind of resistance fighter was he?

"Nobody," he muttered. Then- "Well, somebody. Somebody that might die. I can't let him die."

He started walking in the direction of the Baum's apartment, his mind buzzing. He couldn't think clearly.

He heard Eric yell from behind him and felt him grab onto his sleeve.

"What the fuck?" Eric hissed. "You stupid Jew! You're going right back into the rioting! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"And why the hell do you care?" Kyle flung right back.

Eric paused, momentarily speechless. Why was he doing this all?

Because he was just a little bit gay for the stupid Jew?

"Why does that matter?" he snarled after a minute of dead silence. "Do you WANT to be shot?"

"I won't be shot," said Kyle thickly. "I just need to go to Herbert."

"No, fuck you," said Eric loudly. "I risked my life to save you, you shitty Crikey!"

"Shitty WHAT?"

"Crikey," Eric responded defiantly. "You _did_ kill Christ. You did. Admit it."

Kyle let out a yell and kicked Eric hard. Eric let out a bloodcurdling scream, pulled his gun from it's holster, and aimed right t Kyle's chest. A dead silence fell.

"You wouldn't," whispered Kyle.

"You obviously don't know me, Broflovski," said Eric smoothly. "I don't care about anyone."

Kyle pursed his lips and shot him a look of pure loathing, but said nothing. Eric felt a familiar exhilaration course through his veins.

"Now go," he commanded, gun still out and aimed. "Start walking. _Schnell_."

Kyle started walking through the alley way, in front of Eric. A stony silence reigned for the next half hour, punctured only by periodic curt directions from Eric. Kyle padded along, his thoughts becoming lethargic and untamed. He felt on the verge of passing out, but couldn't bring himself to give Eric the satisfaction.

Finally, the two reached a small, rundown house with lightly cracked windows and an untamed garden out front. Eric ordered Kyle to walk up the stairs and open the door. Kyle obeyed, eyeing the house with distaste. Eric caught the look and flushed.

"Just because you're a rich little Jewboy doesn't mean we all, live in mansions, sheeny," he snarled. Kyle saw red for a brief moment, before suddenly feeling a flash of sympathy for Eric and shutting his mouth. From the look Eric gave him, the Hitler Youth noticed his silence. The gun-weilding boy kept quiet too, though.

Kyle stepped into the house tentatively, his hand raised to his throbbing, sleepy head. It wasn't that bad, really, apart from the fact that the entire house probably was as big as his parent's bedroom. And it was very… clean. That was unexpected.

"You… live here by yourself?" he asked Eric slowly, breaking the dead silence they had both maintained other than Eric's directions.

"Yes," said Eric shortly. "My mother lived here too. But I sent her to saf- she's in America now."

Kyle's hard expression softened. He understood, even in the state he was in. Eric had sent his mother away to America to shield her from the war he knew would erupt. And that was- decidedly humane. Which proved that Eric was just talking before, when he said he didn't care for anybody. He apparently cared somewhat for his mother.

For some reason, that thought cheered Kyle up immensely, and in his crazed semi-sleep, he grinned widely- genuinely- at Eric. He wouldn't have done it normally. But now, his thoughts all sluggish and mixed up and his eyes starting to see black, he acted on impulse. He continued smiling dopily until Eric gave a small little half-smile back, and then promptly fainted dead away.

ANOTHER A/N: PLEASE REVIEWWWWWW!! I never understood reviews... authors would lways hyperventilate over them, and I'd be all, 'whatever. They're such drama queens.' BUT I WOULD NOT HAVE WRITTEN THIS CHAPTER IF I HADN'T GOTTEN REVIEWS!! Or I would have, but like next year. SO please... review? With a cherry on top??


	3. Fighter

* * *

A/N: Alright everybody! Settled down, settle down, and enjoy (?) the crappy third installment of Souls Entwined!

Seriously. I am NOT so happy with this chapter. I don't know why. It's just the whole thing and... gah. headbang

Slashiness doesn't TOTALLY start yet. Sorry, peoples. But I had this plan in my head (gasp! I didn't improvise! Miracle of miracles!) and somehow it didn't all fit into one chapter... :(

But next chapter will be the one!!

* * *

Kyle stared in a stupor. His house- his beautiful house- looked… terrifying. There was no other word to describe it. The usually manicured garden ran wild and untamed, trampled and destroyed. Countless windows were broken, and the regal stone walls had been horribly graphitized with racial slurs and slogans. It looked, if possible, even worse than all the stores Kyle had seen on Main Street.

"Mother- Father," he whispered brokenly. "…Ike-"

He walked up to the door and laid a tentative hand on the handle. The door swung open easily. It had been unlocked. A strange sense of foreboding filled him. Did he really want to find out what happened?

The indecision was killing him. He swallowed, braced himself, and entered his house.

The foyer was a wreck. All the priceless Ming vases had been shattered, all the tapestries and paintings that used to line the walls ripped to shreds. The family portrait was a thing of the past, and the walls sported hand drawn swastikas. Kyle looked at the destruction all around him and could only think of one word to say.

"Fuck."

He felt his heart ache dully. All his senses shut down, and his mind refused to process the information being given. Instead, he acted on impulse. He started to wander through the halls, calling 'Mamme, Tatte- Ike?' again and again, his voice desperate and wailing.

_They're not going to answer me._

He frantically thought, _Yes, they will,_ pushing a sudden chilling vision of his family drowning in blood away. But the truth started to sink in. His calls, echoing eerily throughout the empty house, grew fainter and fainter, and the sounds of his own gasping, choking breath grew louder and louder.

_This is all my fault. I shouldn't have gone with Cartman. I should have saved them. I was a selfish little asshole._

He started to mentally berate himself. How could he have been so self-centered? Now his whole family was probably dead… dead. And it was all Kyle Broflovski's fault.

So focused was he on his self-loathing, Kyle almost didn't hear the weak voice call out to him. But finally, he did hear something. He looked around at the empty room he was in, startled, and then came to the conclusion that he had made the voice up. He started to move, but then-

"Kyle," came the whisper. It was frail, but definitely not a figment of Kyle's imagination. "Kyle, help me."

"…Ike?" said Kyle disbelievingly, not wanting to get his hopes up. Maybe he was going senile… maybe he really WAS dreaming the whole thing up out of desperation. That happened to people lots of times. Nevertheless, his heart leapt. "Ike! Where are you?"

A small noise came from behind a large leather sofa. Kyle took a cautious step towards it, and then threw all caution to the windows and bounded over. There, lying behind the sofa, was little Ike Broflovski, dirty and bleeding.

Kyle's grinned from ear to ear and a rouge tear fell from his eye. He was so happy- _so happy_ there was someone left, that Ike was still alive. Relief and happiness flooded him. He felt light, weightless. After a minute, though, when his initial joy started to fade, he noticed Ike's appearance.

"Ike!" he said in horror, hugging the boy to his chest. "What the hell did they do to you?"

Ike didn't move in Kyle's arms. Kyle's heart started to beat furiously.

"Ike," he said urgently. "Ike, answer me. Ike. Can you talk, Ike? Answer me!"

For a minute the little black haired boy was silent. Then brown eyes fluttered open.

"Kyle," Ike mumbled.

"Oh, thank God," sobbed Kyle, hugging his younger brother to his chest. "Oh, thank God you're alive, Ike. I love you so much, little brother, I really do-"

"Kyle," Ike said once again, a little incoherently. "Mamme… Tatte."

Kyle's veins filled with ice. "What happened?"

"… they're- okay," whispered Ike. "I need a drink, Ky…."

Kyle nodded immediately and laid his brother on the couch. He hurried to the kitchen, which seemed relatively untouched, and poured Ike a tall glass of water. Then he ran back to the room and watched as Ike weakly picked up the glass and drank thirstily.

"Thanks," said Ike when he was finally done drinking, wiping his lips with the back of his hands. Color started returning to his pale cheeks, and his eyes suddenly seemed more alive.

"Ike- are you okay?" asked Kyle with concern.

"You mean apart from being nearly murdered by some ignorant German bastards?" said the young genius in an attempt at humor. "Yeah, I'm doing great." He seemed to be able to talk easily now.

"Ike. Mother and Father. Where are they? Are they…?"

"I just told you they were fine."

"Where are they?" repeated Kyle.

"They're in their room. Kyle… you better go. Fast. I tried telling you before. It's Tatte."

"What about him?" Kyle's pulse quickened.

"I… don't know," said Ike. "I- when the people came crashing in here, Mother and Father came running into my room and told me to go hide. Then they went to your room to get you. They couldn't find you. I heard them, Kyle. I ran downstairs and I almost got away, but some men started hitting me and it _hurt_, Kyle. It really hurt."

Kyle wrapped Ike in his arms again. "Shush, Ike. Don't worry. It's okay."

"I know," said Ike, but he didn't pull away from his older brother.

"…so what happened?"

"Oh. I finally got here. I heard Tatte crying and screaming from upstairs, and Mamme crying. Kyle- I know they're alive. I heard them. But they were screaming, and I'm scared something horrible happened… I couldn't go up, I was hurt too bad-"

Kyle gently laid Ike down on the couch and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. "Don't worry, Ike," he said quietly. "I'm sure they're fine. You go to sleep, okay? I'll go up and take care of everything."

Ike smiled wanly and fell asleep almost immediately, snoring lightly. Kyle stayed awhile to mop off as much blood as he could and to bandage some of the major cuts. Then he took a deep breath and headed upstairs to his parents' room, sick to his stomach and fearing the worst.

* * *

Kyle sat by his father's bed. Herr Broflovski was sleeping fitfully, his face pale and streaked with sweat. Kyle had already cleaned off the excess blood, bandaged all the cuts as best as he could, and made a homemade sling for his father's right hand, which was sprained.

He breathed deeply as he watched his father sleep. Herr Broflovski had been relatively lucky; he had only sustained minor injuries, and they all looked far worse than they actually were. Frau Broflovski, too, was basically okay, apart from her face, which was bruised almost beyond recognition. After a shower and a nap, she had felt immensely better, and now, November eleventh, the day after the infamous _Kristalnacht_, she was already up and running.

Just as Kyle thanked whatever deity was up there that no one in his family had been fatally injured, his mother bustled in with a tray of food. When she caught sight of her sleeping husband, she clucked loudly and knitted her eyebrows.

"How is he?" she asked softly.

Kyle shrugged. "He's getting better. It's slow, though."

"Those meshuggeneh bastards." Kyle's mother set down the lunch tray with a bang. "I don't care what you say, Kyle. You're coming to America with us in two days. I'm still able to book you a ticket- we have contacts high up-"

"Ma," said Kyle tiredly, "I told you already. I'm not going to America."

"Switzerland, then."

"No, mother. I'm staying in Germany."

Frau Broflovski started to raise her voice. "Young man, you listen to your mother for once-"

"Mamme," Kyle said shortly. "I. Am. Staying. In. Germany. Okay? Now, you'll have to be quiet or you'll wake Tatte up."

Frau Broflovski looked livid. However, she huffed out of the room, muttering, "I still can't understand why you want to get yourself killed" so that Kyle should hear.

Kyle sighed loudly. He himself didn't full understand what he was doing. Of course he knew why he SHOULD stay. The Baum Group needed him, now that Herbert and Marianne were… _dead_. He had been told yesterday. And the last thing Herbert had asked of him was to stay and fight.

What Kyle couldn't figure out was why he cared so much about what he told a dead man. It wasn't like a small resistance group was going to do anything to end the war. And to stay in Germany was to sign his own death note. The previous night had proved that.

But he couldn't bring himself to leave. He couldn't bring himself to not obey Herbert's last request.

* * *

"Crazy, Kyle. That's what you are."

Kyle looked at Stan unemotionally. Stan could tell that his mind was made up. Nothing would make him leave Germany now.

"Kyle. You realize that his isn't a game anymore. Right? Ky, those people want to KILL you."

Kyle snorted. "You were the one that told me it was fine when I saw that poster a couple of months ago."

Stan stood, silent. There was nothing left to say. Kyle was right, but he was so horribly wrong at the same time. Respecting this Herbert Baum's wishes- that was one thing. But virtually committing suicide… well, that was entirely different.

"You never even told me you belonged to a resistance group," he said after a while. The fact that Kyle had hid something like that from him hurt him, more than it should have.

Kyle sighed. "Dude. It's a secret group. If I told you it wouldn't really be very secret."

"You told me now."

"Circumstances change."

Stan looked at Kyle's determined face, and even though he was trying to stay mad at him, he just couldn't.

It was cool, actually, that Kyle belonged to a group that opposed the mighty Gestapo, and was so high up, too. It was a very Kyle-ish thing to do. Now it was stamped in his mind- Kyle Broflovski, head of secret resistance group. And he couldn't deny that that was a little… well. Hot.

_Stop thinking that_, he immediately scolded himself. He turned his attention to Kyle again, hoping the boy would start talking to him and distract him from daydreaming. However, Kyle didn't say anything, and looking at him again brought certain _thoughts_ to Stan's mind. Like how Kyle looked very pretty in his green jacket, and how it was really cool the way he looked so masculine in such a feminine way.

Did that even make sense?

Kyle was definitely not short, even if Stan beat him in height by an inch or two. He was skinny. He wasn't muscle man, but he was pretty strong. So he was masculine… but he was a little feminine. Because he WAS a goody goody, and he DID hate cigarettes and booze. He was always clean and nice-smelling. And he had a really hot ass (Stan blushed).

"What?" asked Kyle, interrupting his musings. Shit. He had noticed Stan ogling him. Stan quickly smiled and averted his eyes.

"Nothing," he lied. Then- "Kyle, where will you stay?"

"What? When?"

"When… you know. When your family goes to America. Where will you stay?"

Kyle shifted uncomfortably. "I'll probably stay home," he said slowly.

"By yourself?" Stan was horrified. "Listen, Ky, I know what people say about Jews. They say they're filthy rich because they lie and cheat and trick Germans out of their money. A big house like yours… it'll be like begging to get shot!"

"I know. I don't have another option."

"Stay with me!"

Kyle blanched. "… Dude. You would do that?"

"Yeah, why not?" said Stan innocently.

Kyle arched his eyebrows. "Um… because pretty soon there will probably be full out attacks on Jews, and if you take me in you are putting your whole family in danger?"

"Oh," said Stan. "That."

They both laughed, even though it wasn't very funny.

"I'll ask Mother," said Stan after a while. "She loves you, Ky, I'm sure she would be really happy to have you."

Kyle looked skeptical. "Ask her, then. I just… ."

"Wait right here, secret resistance fighter," said Stan loudly, interrupting Kyle. "I'll be back."

Kyle watched with an amused expression on his face as Stan bowed to him with a flourish and left the room. A few minutes later, Stan ran back into the room, sweaty and flushed, but smiling. Kyle felt his heart skip a beat as Stan opened his mouth and loudly spoke.

"Mother and Father- they both let!"

* * *

"Kyle."

Kyle, busy packing, looked up from his trunk at the familiar voice. Eric Cartman stood there, leaning casually against the doorway.

"Eric." He nodded his acknowledgement. "How did you get into my house?"

"All Jews build their houses the same way. You break into one, you can break into all the others."

"Ha ha. Look, to tell the truth, I'm not really in the mood of racist jokes. I get enough of those in school. So if you don't mind…." Kyle looked not so discreetly at the door, hoping that Eric would catch the hint and leave. No such luck.

Eric crossed over to Kyle and sat down opposite him. Their eyes met and locked.

"Okay," said Eric. "I'll be right up front with you. You have to fucking watch your back, Broflovski."

"What?"

Eric grimaced. "Does the name Herbert Baum mean anything to you?"

Kyle's blood turned to ice in his veins. He paled.

"Don't you DARE use Herbert's name, you fucking Nazi," he said menacingly, trying to cover up the fact that he had paled for a quite different reason. Had the Gestapo found out about the Baum Group? No! How could they? It was impossible!

"Don't play games with me, Jew," said Eric superciliously. "We both know you know what I'm talking about. We both know why you're scared."

Kyle glared at him. He wanted so badly to punch the stupid smirk off Eric's face.

"So what?" he spat finally. "So I knew a guy named Herbert Baum. Jews are tight, we all know each other. So what?"

"Truth is, there really is no evidence against you," said Eric thoughtfully. "I'm just telling you, Broflovski, that there's plenty of suspicion to go around, and that's all the SS needs to shoot you like a dog. Suspicion. Actually, they probably don't even need that to shoot you, seeing as you're a dirty Jew."

"Shut the hell up, Eric," said Kyle fiercely. "I don't need death threats now. You come to tell me something, then you better fucking tell me straight."

"Okay. The Gestapo suspect. That's all there is. Watch your back. Don't do anything stupid. And if I were you, Kyle," added Eric softly, getting up, "I would go with my family to America."

Kyle hands were balled into fists.

"You fucking bastard," he whispered through clenched teeth. "Get the hell out of here."

"I'm gone, Jewboy. Believe me, I have better things to do. But just remember. I saved your pretty little neck for the last time. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Eric was by the door now. He locked eyes with Kyle once again. A strange emotion flitted across his face.

"Just- don't get killed, okay?" he said, his voice unnervingly gentle.

And then he disappeared.

* * *

On November fifteenth, 1938, Kyle Broflovski was expelled from the Berlin School for Boys.

It wasn't just him and it wasn't just his school. All over Germany, Jewish students were officially thrown out of German schools. From now on, they were told, they could only attend Jewish schools.

_It's not that I care about that fucking school_, thought Kyle angrily as he walked home after hearing the news. _It's the principle behind the matter. Herbert was right. We're up to our heads now._

_And I won't go to school with Stan again._

That thought understandably upset him. He wasn't devastated- it wasn't that he would never SEE Stan again. He was sleeping in his room for Christ's sake! But no more cold mornings, walking and talking and laughing and bitching about the temperature. No more of Kyle reprimanding Stan when Stan copied Kyle's essays and homework. No more… anything.

Something deep inside of Kyle fell forever. _This must be what they mean when they say a hole in the heart._

He was on Main Street now. He looked to a store on his right. It was perfectly normal, with bright posters decorating the glass storefront and shelves stacked high with items.

Kyle's eyes fell on a store right beside the first one- a ladies apparel shop. Its storefront was smashed, the glass missing and some shards still sprinkled on the ground below. Merchandise lay strew all over its inside.

For some reason this sight scared him more than anything he had seen so far. It was even worse than seeing Ike, all bloody and hurt. Because now everything struck him with utmost clarity. This remnant from Kristalnacht- the Night of Broken Glass- was testament, witness to the horrors Germany was committing.

Kyle suddenly felt someone looking at him. He looked up. Standing on the other side of the street was a gaggle of adolescent schoolgirls, their blonde hair cut stylishly short and their mini dresses bright. They were staring at him. Some of them were giggling. Kyle self-consciously folded his arms, to hide the yellow Star of David he was forced to wear as best he could. But nevertheless, he could almost swear people were gawking at him, looking at him, laughing at him.

_They don't want me here._

Well, fuck them. Did they think _he_ wanted to be _here_? Here, with all the swastikas and red flags and broken storefronts? He sure as hell wanted to be in America now, living in a free country that let innocent people live free lives. He never wanted to leave Germany more than now.

But he had fulfilled Herbert's last request. And now he understood. He had led himself into a trap. Germany hated the Jews right now. There was no denying it anymore. Sure, there were great people like the Marshes that were against Hitler. But there were not enough of those people to make much of a difference. And it was too late now. The doors were closed. He was trapped in Germany's coffin for all eternity.

He was at the Marsh's house. He knocked lightly on the door. A minute later the peeling door swung open to reveal Frau Marsh.

"Kyle!" she said in surprise, smiling at him. "What are you doing out of school?"

He tried to smile back, but couldn't.

"Frau Marsh... they threw me out of school."

Frau Marsh gasped and ushered Kyle into the house.

"What happened? Kyle- you didn't say anything controversial, did you? Something against Hitler?"

"No," said Kyle, suddenly very annoyed. "No, Frau Marsh. All Jewish Kids were thrown out of German schools everywhere. It's a new law. We can't learn with Aryans anymore."

Frau Marsh gasped and wrapped Kyle in her arms.

"Oh, those horrible, horrible people! So where are you supposed to go for school?" she asked, pulling away from Kyle after a long minute and looking at him sympathetically.

"Jewish schools," said Kyle monotonously.

"Then we have to sign you up right away-"

"No, Frau Marsh."

She looked at him curiously. He just looked at the table.

"Frau Marsh… I- I'm not _going _to school. I don't think I should live with you anymore."

Stan's mother looked appalled. "But that's absurd, dear," she said quietly. "We love you. And Stan loves you, more than you know. We want you here. Besides… where would you go?"

"I don't know, but I can't stay here. You have to understand. People… people hate me. Just- just random people on the street, they see me and I can see it in their eyes, they hate me. And… I don't want them to hate you too." Kyle said the last bit quietly, but it was just loud enough for Frau Marsh to hear.

"Nonsense, Kyle. Listen here, young man. You are staying here, and that's final. We'll get you into a nice school and-"

"No. No School."

"But- but why not, dear?"

Kyle grimaced. "Somehow I have the feeling that I'm not going to be doing a lot of learning from now on anyway," he said. "And besides, I know enough. It's time I started _using_ my knowledge, instead of just getting tested on it."

Frau Marsh didn't know about the Baum Group. She stared at Kyle, trying to figure out what he meant.

"You want to start working, Kyle? Is that what you're telling me?"

Kyle's eyes flashed. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah. I'm starting to work, Frau Marsh."

_We need to know that whatever happens, there's going to be at least one person left I can trust to stay and fight._

_**I'm a fighter, Herbert. I won't let you down.**_

_Please, Kyle. We need you. I need you. _

_**Don't worry, Herbert. I'll make you proud.**_

A/N: Just a little historical note... Herbert and Marianne Baum were not killed on Kristalnacht. They were actually murdered in 1942. However, for plot purposes I needed to kill them off. Sorry. :)


	4. Hiding

A/N: I am sooo sorry for the long update

A/N: I am sooo sorry for the long update… I had a completely stressful, shitty week, and I had to watch South Park episodes 24/7 to make me feel better. 

Finally Slash emerges into the fic… DUM DUM DUM.

Although I really have to admit, this slash was not written satisfactorily at all. I mean, the writing is so…. Bleh. Jerky. I hope you guys like it… it will get better. It HAS TO.

… Well, that's enough of my rambling. I'll shut up now.

* * *

I burst into his room, panting. "Kyle!" I said frantically. "Kyle! Where are you?"

Kyle looked up from the papers spread out across his bed. "What? I'm right here, dude."

"Kyle, what the HELL were you thinking?"

"What do you mean, Stan?" chirped Kyle innocently.

"You know _damn_ well what I mean, Kyle."

Kyle gave up the innocent act.

"Well, come on, Stan, I had to do something! It's not like I-"

"Kyle." I sat down on the bed next to him and looked him straight in the eyes. Normally at this point I would fall into a trance and daydream about Kyle, and how pretty his eyes were. But now it was different. Now our fucking lives were at stake. I mean, he HAD to go and be so rebellious. He had to go with his stupid group and smash up some stores in response to the forced aryanization of all the stores in Berlin. Okay, so he only trashed stores owned by really scummy people that turned in tons of resistant Jews and gays to the Gestapo. But STILL.

"Kyle," I said again. "I _get_ that you're pissed. Okay? I'm pissed too. But there's a limit to how fiery you can be. You can't just go and- I'm not going to let you-"

"Not going to let me?" Kyle's eyes were slits. "_Not going to let me?_ In case you forgot, Stan, I don't need your approval on everything I do. Just because I live in this house-"

"Kyle! Those people are going to murder you!"

"Let them try," said Kyle defiantly.

"How can you be so fucking SELFISH?"

Kyle's eyebrows were traveling further and further down his face. "I'M selfish?" he said furiously. "I think I'm just about doing the most UN-selfish thing I possibly can, Stan. I'm risking my life for everyone else's freedom."

"Well, what about me?"

"_What?"_

I swallowed and felt some color creep into my cheeks. I plowed on.

"What about me? You would go and get yourself killed- and I'd be stuck here by myself! That's not FAIR, Ky! I need my best friend now! I need you- I don't need some fighter for a fucking resistance group that will never change anything anyway!"

Up until the last bit, Kyle's face was compassionate. But then-

"A _fucking_ _resistance group that will never change anything?_ You son of a-"

"Kyle. You went and wrote some stuff on a storefront window. You broke some things here and there. Yeah, it's important to show them that you're still fighting, but you're not ACTUALLY GONNA MAKE THEM STOP!"

Kyle looked like he had been hit in the face. I continued.

"What do you expect, Kyle? Do you think Hitler will see the stars of David and suddenly realize the error of his ways? Think he's going to come groveling at your knees, begging for forgiveness and declaring that all the stolen stores should be returned to their Jewish former owners? Or maybe do you wish that some Storm Trooper will see that and say, 'Hey, these Jews are not as bad as we thought! Let's stop this war!' What the FUCK, Kyle, you're smarter than that!"

Kyle, for the first time, didn't look so bold. He was even- _shaking_ slightly. I immediately regretted what I had said.

"Oh- no, dude," I said, mentally hitting myself for being such an insensitive bastard. "No- Ky, I didn't mean it… I- I was just scared…."

"No," said Kyle softly. "No, Stan. You're right."

"No-"

"I know we're- …not doing anything," said Kyle, his lower lip trembling. "I know. That is, I knew. I knew the _whole effing time_."

"You're not doing NOTHING…"

"Yeah. Yeah, we are."

I could think of nothing to say. Instead I tentatively laid a shoulder on Kyle's shoulder. And then, quite unexpectedly, Kyle leaned into my chest. I gasped, surprised, but not at all displeased. My breath caught in his throat.

"I thought I was worth something," Kyle mumbled miserably into my shirt. "When I was fighting, I felt like I wasn't just being kicked around like some stupid fuck. And now I realize that I AM A STUPID FUCK."

"Er…" I said. My brain had shut down completely the minute Kyle's face had made contact with my chest. _Answer him, you stupid jerk, ANSWER!_ I told myself, but it was to no avail. All I could think of was Kyle's red curls, and how they really smelled quite nice.

"It's fine, Ky," I finally got out. "You just have to lay low. They're not going to get you. You're safe here. Just- don't do anything… you know. Stupid."

"I won't," whispered Kyle into my shirt. "I promise I won't."

I looked down at the exquisite smelling head of red. The moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the trapdoor, coupled with the golden light from a lamp on a small bedside table, alighted on the curls, making them seem to glint with fire. The skin peeking out from underneath the hair was milk white and so unnaturally _smooth_- and-

_God, Stanley_, I thought firmly. _Get a grip on yourself and stop being a romantic poof_.

I had to stop thinking these things about Kyle. He was my best friend! Not to mention the fact that he was Jewish… not that that mattered, but if we started a relationship, and for some reason we were caught, I wouldn't just be a gay freak, but a gay freak going out with a Jew. The SS would shoot me on the spot- not to mention what they would do to Kyle. I almost shuddered, but fought to control myself.

There was also another minor problem, I reflected. Kyle wasn't queer.

At least, I didn't _think _he was. Kyle had never shown any particular interest in girls. But he hadn't shown any interest in boys, either. Although… Kyle had never said anything _negative_ about the vile Nazi kid, even though it was blatantly obvious the boy was pit gay for him. I would have expected a queer joke, a jab. So could that mean… Kyle didn't think there was anything wrong with it?

Oh, god. This was all so confusing. Nothing made SENSE.

"Stan?" said Kyle presently. His voice quivered slightly.

"Yeah?" I breathed. He looked so pretty…

Kyle bit his lip. _He's nervous,_ I thought with an inner grin. _God, he's so cute when he's nervous-_

STOP! Stop thinking these things!

"What?" I asked loudly, as if trying to drown out the voices in my mind.

"Do- do you think… my family made it to America yet?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, probably," I said, my voice infused with mostly fake enthusiasm. I was sure that Kyle noticed, because the worried creases on his forehead just got deeper.

He leaned back into me heavily.

"What am I going to do, Stan?" he asked forlornly. "What the hell am I going to do?"

I uncertainly reached out a hand and started to stroke Kyle's curls hesitantly. Don't ask me why. It just felt like the kind of thing I was supposed to do. The minute my fingers touched the hair, a warm feeling spread up my body, all the way from my toes. I noticed that Kyle seemed startled. Had… had he felt it too?

Our eyes met. A spark traveled between us. And I finally understood that this was more serious than I had originally thought. I WASN'T crushing on Kyle anymore.

I was already in love with him.

Oh, god. I really, really hoped he felt the same way. If this was all one-sided….

I would die.

Maybe Kyle DID feel for me! Maybe he wasn't as straight as he seemed! Could it be…?

My head hurt from thinking so hard. I hadn't broken my gaze with Kyle yet. Did he like me or not?

What the hell. I guess I'm about to find out. I leaned in slowly and pressed my lips on his.

For a long minute, Kyle didn't respond. My pulse quickened and wild thoughts raced through my head. Kyle wasn't doing anything… Oh, god, he hated me now! I had ruined our friendship! Oh, _shit_, what had I done?

But then, just when I really started panicking, the most beautiful and terrifying thing happened. Kyle's mouth opened with a soft 'ah' and he _kissed me back_.

Softly. Sweetly.

_I can not believe Kyle is actually kissing me, _I thought ecstatically.I felt myself falling. My senses overloaded, my brain stopped working, and I acted on instinct alone.

At first he was a little shy, but he almost immediately turned aggressive. His kisses became hard and passionate. I matched his forcefulness and slid my tongue into his mouth, warring with his for dominancy. He wrapped his hands around my waist, and I reached under him and tangled my hands in his curls. We broke apart for a split second, gasped for breath, and resumed attacking each other's mouths. I ran my tongue along his lips slowly. He clutched at my waist tighter and groaned, allowing me to advance into his mouth further.

After a long minute we broke apart. His eyes fluttered open. They were honestly the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

"Kyle?" I asked hesitantly.

He just looked at me. I noticed that his cheeks were lightly tinged with pink. He was blushing! God damn, he was so cute when he blushed….

"Is… is this okay?" I finally said, kind of lamely.

His mouth crinkled into a smile. "I should probably ask you the same question."

I looked at him seriously. "Why? You're the perfect one, Ky, you're the one all the girls would grab if you ever came out of your books. …It's _me_ who doesn't deserve _you_."

I said this all in a moment of raw honesty. Then I realized what I had just said and blushed. I was sure my face was pinker than Kyle's had been.

Kyle's eyes flickered with emotion, and he leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. For some reason, that one small peck excited my body really badly, and I had to fight the urge to tackle Kyle to the ground and have my way with him right then and there.

Then I noticed he was smiling at me devilishly. I wondered if he knew what I had been thinking. He raised one eyebrow at me and God, he looked so sexy like that, I couldn't NOT kiss him. So I leaned forward and captured his lips underneath mine.

He laughed without breaking our lip lock and reached to my neck, pulling me down next to him on the bed. He rolled on top of me, kissing ferociously. The intensity of his touch increased with every second, and I was in ecstasy, total ecstasy.

We finally broke apart, panting and lying side by side, our arms linked. A content, comfortable silence reigned.

"Still," Kyle said softly after a while. "Are you sure about this? I mean, if we're caught, you'll be the Jew-dating fag."

"If we're caught, I doubt that will make much of a difference."

Kyle laughed his beautiful laugh. "Good point."

"I only make good points," I said, my voice clouded over with love and lust- mostly lust at this point. He just looked so good. I couldn't control myself.

He slowly entwined his fingers with mine, his smile never leaving his face. Then, with tantalizing slowness, he leaned in and kissed me lightly. My sense over-circuited again and I hungrily kissed him back, but he pulled away teasingly and picked up the book he had been reading before, grinning mischievously.

I smirked at him and leaned over, straddling his thighs, to take the book away from him. I glanced at the cover.

"Physics Two," I said lightly. "Hmm. Maybe we should find you something more… interesting to study."

"Ha ha, Stan," he said, trying to hold back his smile and failing miserably. "Give me back my book."

I heaved a long-suffering sigh and reluctantly handed the book back to him, but not before wiggling my eyebrows seductively. He rolled his eyes, but I happily noted that he was blushing lightly again.

I leaned back and wrapped my arm around his shoulder. He continued to read, pretending to be oblivious. I smiled and closed my eyes. I felt like I was floating. A warm feeling bubbled within me. I was content.

* * *

Eric cornered Kyle in an alleyway a few days later.

"'The fuck, Jew! Can't you just lay low for a few freaking days?"

Eric was fuming. Kyle could almost see fire in his brown eyes. That was not a good thing. Angering Eric Cartman could not be a good thing.

"What?" he asked, as politely as he could manage.

"I'll tell you WHAT. WHAT is that I've fucking saved your little bitchy ass SO MANY EFFING TIMES I CAN'T EVEN COUNT. But you can't just LAY LOW AND BE HAPPY YOU'RE ALIVE. You have to DELIBERATELY try and GET YOUSELF KILLED!"

Eric was moving closer menacingly. Kyle started to really get alarmed.

"What?" he asked anxiously. "What did I do?"

"I'll tell you, you little kike. You and you little Jew bitches are playing little pranks all over Berlin and it's pissing off the Gestapo. We're not STUPID, you know. You don't even KNOW HOW HIGH this goes up- Himmler himself-"

"Heinrich Himmler?" Kyle's blood ran cold. "He- _he_ knows about us?"

"Oh, not everything. You Jewrats are smart, I'll give you that. But he's traced _you_, Kyle. He's after you."

Kyle looked up into Eric's face silently, trying to not let his fear show.

"Please," he whispered after a while. "Please… there's got to be something you can do-"

Eric let out a short, brutal laugh. "Why the hell would I want to help you, Broflovski?"

"Please!" Kyle said desperately. "Please, Eric! I need you!"

A strange emotion washed over Eric's face, only to be replaced with a chilly glare a moment later.

"Even if I wanted to help you," he said after a while, "which _I don't,_ I wouldn't be able to. Before, yeah, sure. I could lie for you and cover up for you and say you were just a little kike having fun and that I would teach you a lesson. But now you went and got everybody really pissed, and I'm not that high up. I can't stop HIMMLER. He's the fucking head of the SS."

Anger started returning to Kyle. "Yeah, I bet you worship him," he spat.

Eric looked taken aback for a minute, before he came back to his senses.

"Yeah," he said coldly. "Yeah, I pretty much do."

Kyle stared at him defiantly for a long while. Then-

"You know what? This is fucking stupid," Kyle said loudly. He whipped around and started to walk away.

"Hold on a minute, asshole!" Eric hissed. "You didn't fucking get the point!"

"What?"

"You have to hide. Okay? I told you. There, godamnit."

"What do you mean, hide?"

"What the hell do you think I mean? Hide! Don't let them find you."

Kyle stared at Eric. "…hide?" he whispered.

"Yes, you son of a bitch."

Kyle looked at the ground, his burning anger ebbing away. "…Okay," he said. "And- Eric?"

Eric just looked at him. Kyle debated with himself for several long minutes on how exactly he should put what he wanted to say.

"I… probably would have been murdered in my bed. So- thanks," he finally settled on. "… You know. For saving me. Again."

Eric's eyebrows raised.

"You don't have to thank me, bitch," he said frostily. "This is the last time I'm ever going to."

Kyle suddenly flashed him a warm smile. "You've said that before," he said, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"Damn right I did," Eric growled, but even _he_ couldn't stop a small smile from gracing his lips, or a small blush from gracing his cheeks.

* * *

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" asked Stan anxiously, looking around the inside of the old barn. "It's disgusting in here…."

Kyle smiled and sat down lightly on the hard cot. "It's fine. Really," he said.

"But you're not used to stuff like this- I mean, you had such comfortable-"

Kyle's heart fell when he was reminded of his home. He quickly brushed his thoughts of his family away.

"Really, Stan, it's fine."

Stan sat down next to him.

"Well," he said apprehensively, "You know where I live… it's only five minutes or so away-"

"Not even five minutes," Kyle reassured him. "I know, don't worry. Anyway," he added, in an attempt at optimism, "if you're so worried you can come and visit me a lot! You know… to make sure nothing bad happens." He winked.

Stan winked back conspiratorially. "Yeah... to keep poor little Kyle company in this dreadful little place." He tangled his fingers with Kyle's. Kyle's pale skin turned pink.

"You're blushing," teased Stan.

"Fuck pale skin."

Stan laughed and wrapped his arm around Kyle, laying a soft kiss on his pink cheek.

"I need to go… school starts soon. I'll see you at four."

"See you. Enjoy… school."

"Yeah, right." Stan got up heavily and made his way to the door. "Love you," he whispered.

Kyle wished he didn't have such light skin, so that he could stop effing blushing.

"I love you too," he said quietly. Stan met his gaze with soulful eyes and smiled softly before he left, closing the barn door gently.

Kyle leaned back on the cot, a silly smile never leaving his face. Even though the cot was itchy, and the barn stank of horse manure, and the air was stuffy, he felt euphoric. And he knew exactly why.

After a while, though, his smile started to fade, and his good cheer started to dissipate. His thoughts wandered back to his family. Where were they now? Probably in America… _hopefully_ in America. There was no reason they shouldn't make it, but Kyle was filled with a sense of foreboding. He knew some ships had been shot down, or sunk. Fuck, he was the leader of the Baum group. It was his place to know these things. But he had forgotten to check which boat his family had sailed on… what if it was one of those infamous ships that now lay, along with their passengers, on the ocean floor?

A sudden biting hatred for Hitler engulfed him. It was total abhorrence, it was complete detestation… it was utter revulsion. He had always loathed Hitler, but I had never been like this… this raw hatred, pure and passionate.

Hitler had caused EVERYTHING. The son of a bitch was a maniac, and he was the reason Kyle was lying on a hard, dirty cot in someone's abandoned barn, alone and confused and angry and scared and TRAPPED. Trapped like a mouse in mouse trap, only he _wasn't_ a mouse. He was a PERSON. And nobody-_ nobody_ had the right to trap people like that. Nobody.

Hitler was the reason the Broflovskis had endangered their lives to flee on some rickety ship to America. Hitler was the reason thousand of people were entangled in the web of Nazi Germany, doomed to die in the most brutal ways.

And that fucking asswipe Hitler was the reason Kyle and Stan wouldn't be able to announce their relationship. They would never live happy lives together. They would always have to hide in the shadows, in a barn… always hiding.

Kyle _hated_ hiding.

He felt dangerously close to loosing control, so he turned his thoughts back to Stan. A fuzzy, warm feeling bubbled within him and he felt marginally better.

It still came as a slight shock to him- that he, of all people, was gay. Not as a total surprise, of course- he had been having more-than-sneaking suspicions lately that he was not completely straight. He had even started dreaming about Stan a couple of weeks before, on the nights that he wasn't having nightmares about breaking glass and blood and his family dead. And they were nice dreams… happy dreams. And- he blushed- sometimes _wet_ dreams.

In a way, he was glad that the Broflovskis had left Germany when they did. He wasn't sure what Frau Broflovski's reaction to her son being gay would be, but he wasn't eager to find out.

Kyle shook his head, as if to clear his mind, and sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He still had to finish some shit… some papers and files for the Baum Group. Because hell, even if they weren't doing anything constructive, and even if Kyle was trapped in some god-forsaken barn somewhere, they were still a pain in the Gestapo's cruel ass. And that was what Herbert had wanted… that was what Kyle wanted, too. To torment the Gestapo, and laugh in their faces when they couldn't do anything except survey the damage done and wring their hands in frustration. That, essentially, was what they were doing to the Jews, Kyle thought angrily. They caused them pain and then laughingly watched them try to pick themselves up and deal with the damage done.

_Well_, he thought, almost gloatingly, _They'll have a taste of their own medicine now. They'll see how funny it really is._

* * *

I peeked through the barn window. He was there, of course- where else would he be?

I almost felt a little bad for the boy sitting there forlornly, all by himself. I hadn't known Kyle all that long- just a couple of months- but I could tell from the beginning that he was a feisty little Jew. I mean, I wasn't even surprised when I found out that he was the leader of that resistance group that had been giving the Gestapo so much trouble. God, it must really be hell for him to just sit there like a kid in a fucking time out chair.

Although, I reflected, being confined in the barn was better than the alternative- being tortured or shot by the SS. Himmler was really furious, now that Kyle had evaded capture for so long. If any Nazi saw Kyle and recognized him, then the Jew was a dead man for sure.

Well, at least Kyle was using his time wisely. He was sitting there on the bed, scribbling furiously. He had the cutest expression, too- kind of a cross between a pout and a glare. His pretty green eyes burned with purpose, and-

Oh, SHIT. What the hell was I doing? I let go of the barn wall as if I had been burned and whirled around, running as fast as I could in the other direction. I didn't know where I was going… I just ran, and ran, desperately trying to get as far away from the barn- and Kyle- as I possibly could.

A few minutes later found me in a dingy alleyway. I recognized it as somewhere in downtown Berlin. I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against a dirty wall, catching my breath and cursing myself over and over again. Because I just HAD to save him once, and then twice, and then three times. And now I was fucking stalking him! Which could only mean one thing…

I was in love with Kyl-

No, there had to be another explanation. I had saved him out of sympathy… of course I would check on him, to make sure all of my work hadn't been for nothing! It didn't necessarily mean….

Oh, I have to stop kidding myself. There's one simple test to see if I'm gay for Kyle or not. But I'm scared. Yes, that's it. _I'm scared_. Eric Cartman is scared.

Because I DON'T WANT TO BE QUEER.

I'm a HITLER YOUTH! I can't be queer! I'm supposed to hate gays! Hitler is my idol and he hates homosexuals! I can't… BE ONE! Only sick pervs and un-Aryan freaks of nature can be gay. And I'm not a sick perv OR an un-Aryan freak of nature.

…Am I?

Shit. Shit. This was all so confusing. I felt like screaming.

I couldn't bear the confusion. I have always liked knowing everything there is to know. So I braced myself and decided to perform the test.

I closed my eyes slowly and imagined him. Kyle.

The minute his face blossomed into my imagination, my heart stared bearing faster. I saw him whispering something in my mind's eye. I shut my ears, even though I knew that wouldn't help. I was sweating… and my pants. They were becoming uncomfortably tight. I clenched my fists. I couldn't… _No_.

I opened my eyes abruptly. Kyle faded away instantly and I was left all by myself, breathing heavily and feeling utterly confused and angry.

* * *

Another quick A/N: I don't know if you've noticed, but this chapter is called 'Hiding' because of two reasons… one, the more obvious one, is because Kyle goes into hiding. The second reason, though, is because poor little Eric is hiding from himself!! Ha… I had to throw this in, just in case you didn't catch that… because hiding is a major theme in this fic!!


	5. Night of Miracles

A/N: Sorry for the long update

A/N: Sorry for the long update!! Passover sprung upon me and I found myself deprived of free time… Just a point of interest, it's actually not over yet- It's just the four days in between the actually 'holidays' that I'm allowed to go on a computer! Haha, can't explain. It's too complicated. 

Just a note… there will be graphic-ish making out and stuff in this chapter. Plus sex, but it will not be graphic. Just warning you!!

And to all you Cartman/Kyle shippers… I am so sorry for the excessive Kyle/Stan! I needed to include a lot for plot reasons… and also because it happens to be my OTP, even C/K is close behind it. XD

Kyle was sitting on his bed, staring out the window, when Stan entered the barn.

"Hey," said Stan. "Sorry for coming so late. I left right after the last bell rang, but Fritz called…" Stan trailed off when he noticed Kyle wasn't listening.

"Are you okay?" he asked, surprised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Kyle said. His eyes didn't move from the window.

Stan remained quiet. He didn't have long to wait.

"Tomorrow is the first night of Hanukkah," Kyle said finally.

Stan let out a long breath and relief washed over him. _Thank_ _God it's not something more serious,_ he thought. He crossed over to the bed and sat down next to Kyle, snaking his arms around Kyle's waist. He attempted to kiss him, but when he noticed Kyle wasn't responding, he stopped.

"So?" he asked. "You're not religious."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. But it's going to be the first year for as long as I can remember that I won't light candles. And… whatever. It just got me thinking. Traditions, you know."

Stan nodded understandingly and tightened his hold on Kyle's waist.

"Don't worry," he said after a while. "I'm sure they're fine." There was no question as to who he was talking about.

Kyle finally pulled his eyes away from the window and turned to Stan, smiling wanly. "I hope so," he said quietly.

Stan smiled back and kissed him lightly. Kyle laughed and playfully pushed him away.

"You always do that," Kyle said teasingly. "Sometimes I wonder…."

Stan pouted, struggling to keep a straight face. "It's not my fault! You're just- _irresistible_!"

"You know it," said Kyle lightly, grinning from ear to ear, but he leaned in and kissed Stan deeply all the same.

The two fell back onto the bed, kissing. Stan was in pure bliss. However, he sensed that Kyle was still somewhat troubled.

A sudden idea blossomed in his mind and he gave an inner smile. He was sure he had found the way to cure Kyle's melancholy.

* * *

Kyle glanced at his watch nervously. It was five twenty-seven. Stan was exactly two hours and twenty-seven minutes late.

He drummed his fingers on his lap restlessly. For the past two weeks- ever since he had moved into the barn- Stan had come to visit him right after school ended. If there was something that would cause him to delay, or to not come at all, Kyle was sure Stan would have told him. Of course, small unexpected things could come up… but what could have held him up for two and a half hours?

He tried to keep his brain from answering that question, but it was too late. His imagination was already in overdrive, vividly visualizing all kinds of scenarios. Stan, bleeding in an alley, with no one to help him… Stan, bruised and broken, slowly dying… Stan, accosted by the Gestapo and shipped off to a camp….

The last image in particular caused Kyle to shudder. He drew his jacket tighter, even though his shivering had absolutely nothing to do with the draft in the barn, and cursed under his breath. _Please, let him be okay… Please…_

He let out a long, rattling breath and gazed out the window in an effort to calm himself. He could dimly make out stars in the sky, twinkling merrily. For some reason, they made him think of God.

"Please," he said softly, his desperate eyes never leaving the gleaming balls of light. "I don't know if you're listening or even if you exist. And… even if you do exist, you probably hate me for being- …for being gay. But please. Tonight… is supposed to be the night of miracles. Please let him be okay."

Kyle vaguely thought that this was the first sign of insanity- talking to himself. He was suddenly filled with an odd feeling of peace. He curled into a ball on the bed as his eyes slowly fluttered closed.

He was awakened abruptly by the sound of the door opening. It was night, and the barn was plunged in total darkness, save for a few beams of moonlight that managed to force their way in through the small window.

Kyle's breathing quickened and his eyes widened in panic. Who was it…?

A shadowy figure stood in the entranceway, stock-still. Kyle felt adrenalin pump through his body and he remained lying on the bed, pretending to be asleep.

But then the figure moved into the moonlight and Kyle finally recognized who it was.

"Stan!" he gasped in relief, a wide grin breaking out onto his drawn face. He jumped up, crossed the barn in one quick bound, and threw his arms around Stan. "Oh, God, you're okay!"

Stan smiled and returned Kyle's embrace. Then he pulled away.

"Close your eyes," he said.

Kyle looked at him, confused.

"Close your eyes," Stan repeated. "Go on. Close them."

Kyle's eyebrows flew up, but he lifted his hands and covered his eyes all the same.

"No peeking."

Kyle laughed lightly. "I won't peek."

Kyle could hear Stan walking in the direction of his bedside table. Several small clatters followed directly afterward. He was itching to peek, but he controlled himself.

"Okay," said Stan, several long minutes later. He placed his hands on Kyle's and gently removed the fingers from Kyle's eyes. "You can look."

Kyle opened his eyes and inhaled sharply.

On his bedside table, a golden menorah stood, proud and mystical-looking. A box of candles lay nearby, alongside a small box of matches and a laminated card with the appropriate Hebrew blessings printed on it.

Stan was watching Kyle's reaction eagerly.

"Do you like it?" he asked happily. "I bought it myself."

Kyle's eyes were moistening. Kyle couldn't remember a time when he felt more loved, happier, than this instant. His heart felt like it would burst from joy. For Stan to find a menorah on the first day of Hanukkah… he probably had to run around frantically to find a Jewish store that was still open, as most Jews were at home, lighting the candles. Then, he had probably had to brave countless stares- a gentile in a Judaica store. And, of course, to buy a _golden_ menorah… it must have cost a fortune, and the Marshes definitely did not have extra money to spare.

He found Stan's hand in the dark and squeezed tightly. He didn't speak. Words couldn't adequately express his feelings at the moment.

Stan smiled at him gently, and he grinned back. It felt like the most genuine smile he had smiled in a long, long time.

"Go ahead," said Stan softly. "Light the candles."

Kyle moved forward, as if in a dream, and reached out for the candles. With shaking hands, he fit one in the rightmost corner of the menorah. Then he took a match in his hand and struck it against the matchbox. The match lit immediately. He took another candle from the box and lit it with the match.

He picked up the card and slowly read the blessing out loud, tripping over the unfamiliar Hebrew words. When he finished, he picked up the flaming candle and lit the first candle with it. Then he placed the second candle in the middle of the menorah.

He stood, gazing at the candles, for a long while. Then Stan wrapped his arms around his chest and pulled him close.

"You're trembling," said Stan quietly.

Kyle remained silent.

"Are you-"

"No," said Kyle suddenly. He turned to face Stan, his eyes shining. "I'm not upset. I'm- I'm the happiest I've been in a long time."

"Oh," said Stan, his grin returning. "That's good then."

Kyle laughed loudly, freely, and leaned forward, capturing Stan's lips beneath his. Stan kissed him back passionately, his fingers traveling up Kyle's back, scrabbling at the nape of his neck.

They broke apart. Stan was gazing at Kyle fiercely, his eyes burning with fervor, and something… more.

He inched his face closer and closer, until their lips were practically touching.

"I love you," said Stan tenderly. "I really, really love you, Kyle."

Their mouths connected softly. Kyle wrapped his arms around Stan and deepened the kiss, falling onto the bed and pulling Stan on top of him.

Finally they broke apart. Stan was staring down at Kyle again, and Kyle was lost in his beautiful blue eyes. He could just lie there, forever, gazing into them, and he would be perfectly happy. He couldn't wish for anything more.

And finally, he said what he had known for a long time, but had yet to verbalize.

"I love you too," he whispered. "I love you, Stan. I really, really do."

Something sparked in those bottomless blue eyes, and Stan lunged forward and smashed his lips on Kyle's. Kyle returned the kiss fervently. Stan moved on, softly trailing kisses down Kyle's neck, nipping occasionally. Kyle's fingers entangled in his hair and pulled not-so-gently every time Stan hit a particularly pleasurable spot.

Stan began licking now, his tongue dancing and drawing circles on Kyle's exposed neck. He barred his teeth down lightly on the collarbone, sucking at the flesh. Kyle screwed up his face in pleasure, clenching his teeth. Stan reverted back to soft kisses up the neck, until he reached Kyle's bottom lip and sucked softly. Kyle moaned and rolled over, so that he was on the top, and attacked Stan's face viciously.

Stan's hand carried down to Kyle's ass and picked him up, pulling him against him. Kyle groaned and became submissive again, allowing Stan to roll on top and kiss him hard.

"Jesus, Kyle," Stan gasped. "You are so fucking hot."

Kyle responded with another kiss, and Stan responded enthusiastically.

It was a long time before they finally broke part, taking loud, gulping breaths. Stan was sweating and Kyle was panting heavily.

"Oh, God, Ky. I love you so much-"

"I love you too. So much." Kyle's eyes flickered with emotion.

Stan stared at him, enraptured. His expression was so tender and his eyes were so loving Kyle almost felt like crying again.

They were lost in each other's faces. Kyle had never loved anyone this much, not ever.

And then, his mind was made up. There was no one he trusted more than Stan. There was no one that meant more to him. And he intended to prove that to Stan right now.

Stan somehow sensed what he was thinking, because suddenly a new expression crossed his face- a cross between joy, lust, love, and concern.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly. "I understand if you-"

"I'm sure," said Kyle, his voice clouded with emotion. "I- I love you, Stan. I never knew what the word 'love' meant, until you came along. And I know I sound cheesy and stupid, but…." His voice trailed off.

Was it just a trick of the light, or were Stan's eyes unusually moist?

Stan leaned down and softly kissed him. Kyle kissed him back slowly, passionately.

And then Kyle gave himself to Stan, as the flickering light of the candles grew fainter and fainter. It was passionate; it was beautiful; it was the entwining of two souls forevermore.

Finally, at dawn, they both fell into a deep sleep, with a night of miracles behind them and a bright, happy future ahead.

* * *

Eric sat at home, lonely and confused. He couldn't seem to fall asleep, no matter what he tried. He attempted to meditate, he drunk copious amounts of tea, he listened to music. But nothing worked. Now it was dawn already. The sky was turning slowly from navy to light pink. But he was still up. And he knew why. He knew what caused the calm, collected, conniving Eric Cartman to sit by his kitchen table, bewildered, forlorn.

It was that goddamn Jew rat.

That goddamn _hot_ Jew rat.

He couldn't help it. He couldn't control his thoughts at all. It was horrible, being totally powerless. He felt weak.

Eric didn't like feeling weak.

Of course, he thought over his fifteenth cup of tea, he could just go and tell Kyle how he felt. But every time he thought that, the cruel voice of logic sounded in his head. Kyle could not possibly feel the same way. Who could ever love an over-sized, manipulative, poor, heartless, vindictive Nazi sociopath? Especially if one was a Jew, the very thing said Nazi sociopath supposedly hates with all his being? The only way he could ever satisfy his lust would be to rape the Jew- but Eric wrinkled his nose at the thought. It wasn't the idea of rape that disgusted him. He probably could fuck any person blind against their will and not think twice about it. It was just… different, somehow, when it came to Kyle.

Why?

He didn't know the boy well enough to say he loved him. He knew that love came with time. But then how to explain this feeling he felt for Kyle? It wasn't purely lust, although that certainly played a part in it. It was… something else. Something more real.

Could it be that he loved the Jew?

He steeled himself and searched within himself. And the answer that came up was very clearly Yes.

Maybe he didn't love Kyle in the true sense of the word. He knew it was preposterous to claim to really love someone after such brief meetings, but… there was definitely something there. Call it chemistry, call it sparks, call it personality-gravitation… .

And for Eric Theodore Cartman, who had practically never loved anybody or anything in his entire life, that was more than enough.

_You idiot,_ he told himself. _Why are you wasting your time? A chance like this may never come again. Go and tell Broflovski how you feel or you might lose any happiness you could have had._

He jumped up out of his seat and dropped his cup of tea. Dimly he heard it fall to the ground and smash, but his mind was already somewhere else. He peeled off his robe and donned his clothes, then grabbed his overcoat and left his house, slamming the door behind him.

The walk to the barn he knew Kyle was hiding in took surprisingly fast. His feet led him there, while his mind thought over what he would say, practicing it in his head. His heart felt light and he walked purposefully, confidently.

He made his way to the door, and then hesitated. It was five thirty in the morning… he should probably check on Kyle through the window, to make sure he wasn't in a compromising position. He wouldn't want to walk in on the boy sleeping naked without covers or something. That would be highly embarrassing.

Eric didn't know yet how accurate his fear had been.

He stealthily made his way around the barn and breathed deeply to calm his racing heart. Then he peeked through the window.

He almost screamed.

Kyle was lying naked in bed, curled up right next to a black-haired boy Eric recognized as Stan Marsh. They were wrapped in sheets, but their legs were visible. Eric felt something clutch at his heart as he stared at Kyle, entwined in the Marsh boy. He also couldn't help but notice that his pants had tightened considerably upon seeing Kyle twisted together with the other boy in all his naked glory.

He cursed under his breath and let go of the windowpane. He turned and started walking back to his house, his brain thinking furiously the entire time.

So. The goddamn son of a bitch Marsh had stolen Kyle from him. He wanted to play games, did he? Well, the game was on.

Eric always won games.

When he got home the first thing he did was make a beeline for the phone. He picked it up and rung up a most familiar number.

"Hello… Hans? It's me, Eric."

A silence.

"_Guten tag_ to you too. What are you doing up so early? … Ach, I see."

Another pause. Then-

"Listen, the reason I'm calling is because I've just found out about someone that would interest you greatly. A rebel, a threat to the Third Reich."

Eric stopped for a minute, listening to the voice on the other end. He chuckled.

"Yes, he's a filthy rat. I know his name, I know his address. I know everything. He's all yours. I think you'd best send him to Buchenwald."

Another pause. Eric's eyes narrow and his lips ease into a sadistic smile.

"No. He has committed a far greater crime. You see, Hans, he is a homosexual."

_You wanted a game? You got a game. And now you, fucking Stan Marsh, have lost_.

"His name? Ach, that is easy. His name is Stanley. Stanley Marsh."

A/N: Heheee! (naughty giggle) Hope you enjoyed that!! Just a quick note for anyone who doesn't know—Buchenwald is a concentration camp. And yes, I know Cartman is very messed up. That's why I love him so much!! 


	6. Revelation and Dreams

Knock, knock

A/N: OMG I AM SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU GUYS WAIT SO LONG. So much stressful stuff has been going on, and family issues… gah. If any of you are still interested in this story, here's the next chapter… I hope it will make sense. Especially the second part. I just realized that in a lot of fics Cartman isn't portrayed as human, and I hate that, so I included some of his past. But it's kind of random. You'll see when you read. 

_Knock, knock._

"Fuck," Eric mumbled angrily, turning over in his bed and pulling the blankets over his head.

_Knock, knock._

Eric squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The tapping on the door stopped. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned over again, relaxing.

… _Knock, knock, knock._

This time the knocks were pleading, as if whoever it was at the door was desperate for Eric to answer. Eric frowned. Who…?

He cursed again, as loud as his hoarse morning voice could manage, and heavily got to his feet, mumbling angrily under his breath. The mysterious knocker had better have a good reason to wake him up at… he glanced at his clock. Five o'clock. What the hell?

He exited his small, cramped room and stumbled the short distance to the door, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Shit, no one should be up this early.

He attempted to pull open the door, cursed when it didn't budge, and then sluggishly realized the door was locked. He cursed again, for good measure, and then unlocked the door and threw open the door, fully intending to bawl out at whoever it was that had woken him at this ungodly hour.

However, when he caught sight of who it was, he gasped and stuttered, "W- what are you-"

It was Kyle. His face was drawn and pale and his usually sparkling eyes were red and puffy, as if he had been crying for a long time. Now his eyes were dry- Eric was thankful for that- but his expression was one of utter depression and defeat.

It took Eric a while to place the expression, as it was one that seemed so out of place on Kyle's face. What could have upset him to that extent…?

Oh. Fuck.

Eric felt a twinge of annoyance as he finally realized why, exactly, Kyle was standing at his doorstep at five o'clock, looking more miserable than the people Eric so often saw being brought in to Gestapo Headquarters. Of course… why would he have come to Eric's house, and not that son of a bitch Stan's little hovel? Undoubtedly, he had heard the news about his little boyfriend being shipped off to Buchenwald.

"What?" Eric asked sourly.

Kyle's lower lip trembled. _Oh, God,_ Eric thought_. Please don't let him fucking _cry_._ _That will be_

_so awkward_. _Oh no- he's going to-_

But Kyle didn't cry. Instead, he took a long, rattling breath and whispered, "Can I come in?"

Eric debated with himself. On the one hand, he wanted Kyle to come in. He wanted to talk to him. But… did he really want to have to listen to a whole sob story about Marsh? Fuck, it was five o'clock in the freaking morning!

"Yeah, whatever," he said after a long while, against his better judgment. He stepped away from the door and watched as Kyle hesitantly entered.

"What?" he asked again, pointedly. He didn't intend for his voice to sound as rude as it did, but it _was _five o'clock in the morning. He had an excuse.

"I need your help," said Kyle, his eyes flitting around the tiny foyer nervously. Eric grunted in surprise. This was not what he had been expecting.

"What makes you think I would help you?"

Kyle's roving eyes fell on Eric and stayed there.

"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please, Eric. I really, _really_ need it."

Eric sighed as he stared into Kyle's unhappy green eyes. There was raw desperation in them. He felt a slight stirring of sympathy.

"I _told _you I wouldn't help you anymore," he said, but his tone was resigned. Kyle did a funny little half-smile, and a spark of life returned to those penetrating eyes.

"Thanks," he said simply. "Thanks so much, Eric."

Eric felt like grinning, but instead nodded solemnly and motioned for Kyle to follow him into the small kitchen. He was starting to see that sending Marsh away had double benefits… not only was he free of the bastard that had taken Kyle, he could also act understanding and sympathetic to the Jew in his time of sorrow, and by so doing build trust and cause Kyle to respect him… maybe even start to _like _him….

Kyle was sitting down by the little table in the center of the kitchen. Eric opened the fridge and removed his prized, expensive jug of ready-made coffee. He placed it in a kettle on the stove and proceeded to heat it up.

"Do you want some?" he asked off handedly. When Kyle didn't answer, he repeated his question. The other boy remained silent. Eric, insulted, turned to speak, but then saw that Kyle was staring off into space miserably. He shut his mouth, sighed again, and poured the hot coffee into two mugs. Then he sat down at the only other seat at the table, which happened to be exactly opposite Kyle, and set down both mugs on the table with a loud thud. He pushed one over to Kyle.

Kyle seemed to come back to the living world. "Thanks," he said gratefully, looking at the mug but not touching it.

"Drink," Eric commanded.

Kyle drank. Eric took a small sip of his own coffee and instantly felt much more awake. He waited awhile for Kyle to finish before getting back to business.

"What do you need my help with?"

Kyle had been spacing out again. When Eric spoke he blinked, startled.

"Oh." He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. "Erm… Eric? Exactly how high up are you in the… you know?"

"The SS?" asked Eric stupidly, and then saw Kyle pale and felt like hitting himself. "I mean…." He tried to rectify what he had said and found that he didn't know how. Instead he answered Kyle's question.

"I'm a- Sturmbannfuehrer," he said quietly. Normally, this declaration would go with a puffing out of chest and a proud smile, but now it almost felt humiliating to admit. What was happening to him?

Kyle gasped. "You're a… you're a major?" he whispered disbelievingly, his eyes wide. He was suddenly looking at Eric respectfully, but not an awed, admiring respect. It was a fearful, disgusted, but forced respect, one that Eric suddenly didn't want.

"Yeah," said Eric, looking at the table, at the ceiling, anywhere but Kyle.

"But… how-?"

"I'd rather… not get into that," said Eric shortly, uncomfortable. Somehow he didn't think telling Kyle he had gotten to his position by passionate speeches against Jews and Gays would make the boy admire him anymore.

Kyle was silent. Eric could tell he was having second thoughts. What was he thinking? He was probably regretting coming to Eric's house. He was probably regretting ever having talked to Eric, ever.

"What?" he said defiantly after a while of prolonged silence.

Kyle shrunk back from his harsh words and mumbled an apology, not meeting his eyes. Was he… was he scared of him now? Was Kyle Broflovski, fiery resistance fighter, strong willed pain-in-the-ass to the SS, scared of Eric Cartman? Or…

Or was he just too disgusted with him to look in his eyes?

_Why does that matter to me_? Eric thought dejectedly, even though he already knew the answer to that question. _Fuck, being in love sucks balls._

"Do you want my help or not?" he said angrily.

Kyle seemed to be regaining his composure. "Yeh," he said. "-Yes. Thanks."

He was quiet. What the hell? Eric drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.

Kyle remained silent.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Eric finally burst out. "Tell me what you want or fuck off!"

He felt an unfamiliar twang of regret after he spoke. He had been a little rude, he supposed. But still. What kind of son of a bitch wakes someone up at five in the morning, drinks his coffee, asks for his help, and then suddenly loses his courage and acts like a mute?

Kyle also seemed sorry. _But probably not sorry for me,_ Eric thought gloomily. _Probably sorry he ever came is all._

"I just….." Oh, good, he was talking, at least. "I just- well, if you're… if you're a _Sturmbannfuehrer_ you'll probably know, but- Stan…." Kyle's voice trailed off. His eyes were glistening.

_Oh, shit. Oh, holy fuck._

This was not what Eric had wanted. He had wanted to get rid of Marsh, not turn Kyle into a fucking cry baby.

Although, he had to admit, Kyle was awfully hot when he was teary.

He shook his head and remembered his plan in seducing Kyle. Well… not exactly _seducing_ him. That was too strong a word.

But causing Kyle to like him, anyway.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly. "It's okay."

A spark of anger flared in Kyle's eyes, but the boy remained quiet. Eric made a mental note never to try and baby him again.

"Sorry," he said humbly. "But- yeah, I know. I mean, I heard about it."

"You did?" said Kyle, his face brightening slightly. "Then you- know what happened to him? Where he is?"

"Um-" Eric's thoughts raced. What the hell was Kyle planning to do? "…What did you hear?"

"I- I just- Stan comes over every day, and yesterday he didn't come and I knew I wasn't supposed to leave but what would you have done? I went to the Marshes and Mrs. Marsh opened the door and she was crying and _everything_ and she told me the SS had come and had taken Stan away and I really need to know what- what they did to them." Kyle gasped for breath.

Eric raised his eyebrows, the picture of rationale. Inside, though, his heart beat faster and thoughts flitted through his head, every one crazier than the next.

"They sent him to a camp," he finally said truthfully. Perhaps Kyle wouldn't know about the camps… after all, nobody really knew what went on there yet. There were only rumors, crazy whispers… maybe Kyle didn't believe them!

His hopes, however, were firmly crushed when he spotted the expression on Kyle's face. Revulsion, terror, pain, misery, longing, fear- all wrapped in to one. And it got progressively worse every second. Of course. As a member of that stupid Baum Group, he was bound to know the truth about the camps. Shit.

"He got sent to a… camp?" Kyle whispered, his already pale face now snow white. "W- why?"

Eric took a sip of coffee.

"Because he's a fag," he said bluntly. "What do you think?"

Kyle flushed, Eric noticed with amusement. His color went from palest white to a deep red.

"There's- fucking- nothing _wrong_- with- being- gay," he said through clenched teeth. "And don't- don't you talk about him that way, you son of a bit-"

"Temper, Broflovski, temper," said Eric lightly, but he offered a smile, realizing that perhaps he was being too much of an asshole. It didn't seem to help. Kyle stopped talking, but his narrowed eyes were shooting daggers at Eric.

"Just tell me what you want," said Eric, suddenly strangely exhilarated. _It's almost_, he thought, _as if just the sight of Kyle angry gets me high._

He laughed at the thought, and Kyle seemed to swell with anger. That caused him to laugh more, while the other boy fought to control his rage.

"Just- fucking _help me_, Eric." Kyle spoke through gritted teeth.

Eric smiled. "Certainly," he said jovially. "How?"

Kyle took a deep breath.

"First," he said, weariness creeping into his voice, "Where… which camp, exactly, was he…?"

Eric stared at him. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just _tell me_."

Eric glanced down at his coffee and took a swig, not because he was particularly in the mood, but because it gave him time to think. What should he say? Should he tell Kyle exactly which camp? What if the Jew did something stupid…?

"Buchenwald," he said after a while, telling the truth against his better judgment.

Kyle nodded and then he took a sip of coffee. For some reason, Eric had the odd feeling he wasn't drinking because he liked the stuff either.

"I- need to ask you a… favor," said Kyle hesitantly.

Eric looked at him curiously. "What?"

Kyle looked up at him. The misery on his face was so evident, it almost made Eric recoil. He wasn't used to seeing such raw displays of emotion.

"I need you," Kyle said, "to turn me in to the SS."

A short silence. Then-

"What the fuck!"

Eric had practically yelled this. His blood was pounding in his veins, and he heard it in his ears. He was almost shaking. What… what the hell was Broflovski getting at?

"What the fuck," he said, lowering his voice considerably. Instead of sounding less angry, he just sounded dangerous now. "Why the hell would you want to go to a camp?"

"…I just need to get to Buchenwald!"

Eric almost laughed. Almost.

"Do you have any fucking clue," he said coldly, "of what goes on in those camps? I can almost bet my life that your little boyfriend is dead."

Eric noticed his slip of tongue immediately. However, Kyle was so angry, he didn't even seem to catch Eric calling Stan his boyfriend. Had he listened more carefully, he might have wondered exactly how Eric knew that he and Stan had been together.

"I need to get to Stan," said Kyle, his voice shaking with fury. "I know he's alive. He has to be. I would've known if- …if anything… happened. I need to find him."

_Fuck, he really loves this guy. Why? What does he see in him? Marsh is too skinny- and he's poor, and he's-_

Eric shook his head from his thoughts.

"And why do you think I would turn you in?" he wanted to know. "Because I am most definitely not going to."

"Why," Kyle asked, his voice chilly and accusing, "am I different than any other Jew you've sent to the camps? Because I'm sure you've sent countless there. You know, being a major and all. You probably _lived _at a damn camp before."

"I didn't," Eric responded, not bothering to answer Kyle's question.

"So just turn me in! Why is it that fucking hard?" Kyle had gotten up from his chair.

"No."

"WHY?"

"Because!"

"Because _what_?"  
"I don't have to explain things to a fucking Jew!"

Kyle suddenly fell back into his chair tiredly. "You make no sense," he said quietly, desperately. "You seem to hate me for being Jewish, and for fighting against your precious SS, and then when I ask you to turn me in, you refuse! What? What am I doing wrong? Wait- no! I'm not doing anything wrong! You are! What the hell is your problem?"

Eric groaned. "You realize you're asking me to kill you."

"I'm not going to die."

"GOD, KYLE, THIS IS NO TIME FOR HEROICS! YES, YOU ARE GOING TO FUCKING DIE THERE!"

"No, I'm not."

Eric slapped his forehead. Who would've guessed Kyle would be so devoted to that son of a bitch?

"I'll think about it," he said finally, slowly. _I can't believe I'm actually considering sending Kyle to his death._

Kyle, however, seemed delighted to hear that Eric was considering sending him to Buchenwald. "Thank you, thank you, thank you _so much_," he said with relief. Eric grunted in response. Kyle happily picked up the cup of coffee and quaffed the rest of it down.

"What about that stupid group of yours?" said Eric suddenly.

Kyle looked up, startled. "What group?"

Eric waved his hand impatiently. "The one started by that Baum person."

"Oh. Yeah."

"So? Are you just going to leave it?"

"They can manage without me," said Kyle, but he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself of the truth of his statement.

Eric got up heavily. Kyle's curious gaze followed him as he crossed the kitchen and made his way into the hall.

"Where are you going?" Kyle apprehensively called after him. He turned.

"Unless you haven't noticed, it's five thirty in the morning. I'm fucking tired."

"Oh." Kyle seemed uncomfortable again.

"What is it now?"

Kyle shifted in his seat. "No- it's just… I don't really want to go… well, go back to-"

Eric rolled his eyes. "You can sleep here," he said shortly.

"R- really? I mean… seriously?"

"Take my mom's old room. It's to the right of mine."

"Okay. Thanks, Eric. Thanks a lot."

Eric chose not to answer and left. He heard Kyle get up and run after him.

"Eric! Are you… mad at me?"

Eric shrugged.

"Yeah, pretty much," he said.

"Why?"

Eric ignored Kyle and entered his cramped, messy room. He collapsed onto his bed and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep.

Kyle made his way into Mrs. Cartman's room, feeling grossly out of place. The walls were painted an unnaturally bright white and were totally bare. The room was small, but completely empty. A faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air.

Kyle gingerly sat down on the bed in the corner of the room and fingered the thin, cheap floral blanket. What was he doing here? He was sleeping in a room next door to an SS major. He had been begging for said SS major to turn him in. Who in their right mind would do that?

_If only Herbert could see me now,_ he thought sadly.

He yawned and lay back on the bed. It was hard, but he had gotten used to that already. The barn had not been particularly luxurious either.

He bemusedly thought of the past forty-eight hours. Last night- two nights ago, he corrected himself, as it was now morning- he had been in bed with Stan, safe and warm. The future had seemed so bright. Not even the ominous war troubled him.

And now- now Stan was gone, maybe even… dead.

_No_. He shivered and wrapped his arms around his body tighter. Stan couldn't have died. Kyle was sure he would have felt it. Even if they had been only going out for a couple of weeks. They had been best friends practically their entire lives! The two shared an uncanny connection, a bond that Kyle was sure he didn't have- _couldn't have_- with any one else.

He remembered how, when he and Stan had been in sixth grade, they had kept falling ill on exactly the same days. When one felt sick, the other felt sick. It was unnatural. It was downright creepy.

A soft crinkling disturbed his thoughts. Kyle frowned and reached under the thin pillow he had been laying one. His fingers closed upon a thick stack of sheets.

_What the hell_, he thought. _What are these?_

He wanted to read them, but felt he shouldn't. These were either Eric's or his mother's- they were private property….

He couldn't control his curiosity. He started to read.

Dear Mother,

I hope all is well. I was sorry to hear Fraulein Goldstein had to leave. I can't imagine the clinic without her. I suppose she will be happier in America, though.

I am heavily involved in my third year here, thanks to Herr Veiner. His efforts to get me a scholarship were invaluable.

He thinks I should become either a Latin or English professor. But I still prefer drama. I look forward to our upcoming play, _The Merchant of Venice_, and my starring role as Shylock. If I'm a success, I might get to lead The Great Gatsby next year!

I have begun learning French. My teacher is impressed at how I managed to read Maupassant on my own. Someday I would love to read Moliere's plays, as he also acted in them.

Last month I went to Westphailia with Wolfgang. His uncle runs a private farm there. His uncle is a bit strange, though. I told Wolfgang so. He seemed insulted. But I still had a wonderful time.

I miss you greatly, mother, and I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours,

Eric

Kyle's eyebrows traveled higher and higher up his forehead as he read. The letter did not sound as if Eric Cartman had written it. It was too… nice. Too civil.

He had always though of Eric as the acting type. However, the French part came as a surprise to him. Eric hadn't struck him as being particularly intelligent, but if he had read Maupassant on his own….

He moved on to the next paper.

Dear Mother,

Thank you very much for the birthday present.

I have some good news! I have joined the Hitler Youth. It has just been formed here, and almost everyone is expected to take part. Because of my age, I suppose, I have been appointed as on of the leaders. Remember how you and Father tried to make me join a youth group when I was younger? Well, now it seems as if I have no choice.

This summer I am taking the Jungvolk unit to the Harz mountains. I look forward to it. You know how much I enjoy working with children.

Love,

Eric

Eric Cartman liked working with children? What?

Intrigued, Kyle picked up the next letter. This one wasn't written by Eric. It was tearstained and looked fragile.

Eric darling,

I have some bad news. I hate to tell you like this, through a letter, but I know my poopsikins will remain strong. I think this is the best way, as I can not travel up to your school, and I don't fully trust the sensitivity of your principal.

Eric, your dear father was murdered. Two nights ago. Apparently some crazed Englishman, upset over the death of his family in the war, took his anger out on your father. The man is behind bars, do not worry.

I fear you will be devastated by this… please, be a man for your mommy, Eric. I believe in you. Do not give up your studies… that is what your father wanted most of all, for you to succeed. He hoped you would enter the Waffen-SS too, and uphold the family name. Please, Eric. Make him proud. Make us proud.

I love you, and am with you every step of the way.

Love,

Mother

Kyle put down the papers in a daze. Of course… he hadn't ever asked Eric about his father. That was probably how Eric had risen so high in the SS… he could just imagine, a boy finding out that his father had been murdered by one of the Allies, a father that had wanted him to go to the Waffen-SS. No doubt that was when Eric had started hating the Allies- the enemies of Germany- with a passion. And Jews were considered enemies of the country now, too….

That was why Eric had seemed torn when it came to him! He had wanted to hate Kyle, to hate him with a passion. But he had found he couldn't… because he- liked Kyle?

Kyle instantly chided himself for letting his imagination run away with him. These letters didn't mean anything, anything at all.

But suddenly he wasn't scared of Eric anymore. Suddenly the Sturmbannfuehrer seemed a lot more human than he had five minutes ago.

Kyle felt waves of tiredness wash over him. He felt his eyes close, like dead weights, as tiredness caught up with him.

His last thought was that the letters proved that Eric had loved his mother, from the respectful way Eric had written them. The Eric he knew didn't have respect for anyone.

And then he fell into a troubled, fitful sleep.

A/N: SO WAS IT TOTALLY HORRIBLE? Please review!! You guys make me so happy!! And should I include more slash?

BTW- did any of you catch the irony of Eric playing Shylock in The Merchant of Venice??


	7. Matt

HOMIGOSH! I am SO SORRY- SO SORRY for taking so long to update! So much is going on… I won't burden you all with the details, but OUCH. Plus, I've been really sick. So anyway, I didn't have time to sit and write… my sincere, humble apologies!!

It's funny: A week ago or so I was listening to 'Alive with the Glory of Love' by Say Anything for the first time, and it struck me how the song described Kyle and Stan during the Holocaust so WELL! Almost as if it had been written for them!! But maybe it's just me… lately, every song I listen to is somehow about an SP slash pairing. Like, 'I Hate Everything About You' by Three Days Grace is SO CARTMANxKYLE, and 'Wait for you' by Elliot Yamin is Stan confessing his feelings to Kyle and Kyle running away… same with 'What Hurts the Most' by Rascal Flatts- how Stan is so close to Kyle like a friend, and then he confesses his feelings and Kyle walks away… ! 'Far Away' by Nickelback is StanxKyle, 'I can't fight this feeling anymore' by REO Speedwagon is both CartmanxKyle and StanxKyle. There's lots, LOTS more for all different pairings… but I won't keep rambling. ;)

Also- I have this weird thing. I don't respond to individual reviewers. I don't know why, I just never do. Maybe I should. BUT GUYS, YOUR REVIEWS MAKE MY DAY!! DO NOT FOR A SECOND THINK THAT I DON'T APPRECIATE THEM!! Cuz I definitely, definitely do. Your reviews make my life a little brighter!! Just making sure that's clear. XD

* * *

Cold bit at every inch of skin on his body ruthlessly, leaving him shivering violently, shaking almost too hard to hold his broom properly. He didn't stop sweeping, though- the thought of what might happen if he halted his work for even a minute sent shivers down his spine even stronger than the freezing weather did.

He ought to be grateful, really; he had been given such easy work. House cleaning for the infamous Ilse Koch, the wife of the camp commander? Pfft! He was being practically spoiled. Why, he didn't know. Maybe God was looking after him.

He snorted at this thought. God, protecting him! Right. He had to stop living in a field of roses. Ilse Koch was a sadistic bitch; the woman had even developed a morbid taste for tattooed skin stripped from the corpses of inmates. She probably found it amusing to see a gay man clean a house- something classified as women's work.

At least _she_ found it amusing. Nobody else seemed to. It was quite usual for him to suddenly be pulled out of line by some officer and have the crap beaten out of him. It seemed as if the Nazis hated gays almost as much as Jews themselves. They were forever being targeted.

_It's not even like I can hide being gay, _he thought. _This stupid badge thing makes me stand out from a mile away. _

He turned his bitter gaze to the 'stupid badge thing' in question. It was a bright pink patch of cloth, cut in the shape of a triangle. The cursed sign of homosexuality.

He shivered again. Well, it could be far worse for him. At least he hadn't been of those gays chosen to undergo pseudoscientific experiments. Most of _those _unfortunate souls had been injected with typhus bacillus, a deadly, painful disease.

He continued to sweep outside the small, snug little cottage of the Kochs. His restless eyes landed on three men digging not far away. They were Jewish, judging by the yellow stars on their striped prison uniforms. He wondered… could it be that one of them was Kyle's relative? Friend? Acquaintance? Had Stan once seen them on the street in better times, never knowing he would meet up with them again in vastly different circumstances?

As he watched, an officer strode past the three. One turned his head and looked at the officer, his gaze like one of a hunted animal's. The Jew was already unnaturally thin- he looked as if even a breeze would blow him away. His eyes followed the officer, and the expression of hopelessness on his face was impossible to mistake.

_Will I ever look like that_? Stan thought miserably. _I've only been here three days and I'm already dead tired, dirty, and degraded. What will I look like in a week?_

…_If I'm even still alive then, that is._

He returned his attention to his sweeping, desperately trying not to think about the future. _Swish, Swish_. He swept to an oddly soothing rhythm, a beat that was steady and predictable. Almost nothing was like that anymore, he mused. _Swish Swish_.

A feeling of utter depression washed over him. He told himself to continue sweeping, that depression was surely an emotion he would be feeling often, and that he should get used to it now. However, it took real self control not to just throw down the broom and end his now pathetic existence. He was sure a guard would shoot him without thinking twice for stopping to work- after all, hadn't he seen it happen to others countless times?

But he gripped the broom handle tighter. He _would _live, he would go on… if only to laugh in the SS's face. It was like Kyle had once told him. Maybe the Baum Group didn't do anything terrifically constructive, but it snickered at the Gestapo. It proved that people weren't scared to show their disapproval. And even if inevitably the group would all be sent to their deaths, well, at least they would have gone down as resistors, as fighters, not as some mindless, nameless, submissive robots shot down by a cocky soldier.

_Kyle_. How was he? By now he had undoubtedly found out that that Stan had been taken away. He was probably horribly-

A sudden blinding fear gripped him. Had the person who had informed on him informed on Kyle as well? He had been hiding his homosexuality carefully… he had never gone to any gay bars, or subscribed to any gay magazines. How would a person know he was queer? Unless….

Unless somebody had seen him with Kyle.

Which meant that Kyle was in danger, too.

He suddenly felt worse, the worst he had felt yet in this wretched place. It was enough that _he_ had to suffer here… if _Kyle_….

He cursed, blinking back the sudden moisture that had sprung up in his eyes. He had known all along that he shouldn't have accepted his homosexuality. It could have been his dirty little secret… but no. He had _admitted _it to Kyle, and had _accepted_ his crush on Kyle, thus leading to his eventual _relationship_ with Kyle… if he had never said a word, he wouldn't have been here right now… Kyle would have remained safe in the barn- he would have survived until the cursed war was over….

He firmly shook off his feelings of regret. Even… even the torture of camp life was worth the few weeks he had had with Kyle. Even if he had the power to go back in time and change the past, he wasn't sure he would.

He only hoped Kyle was safe. If he had caused him to suffer….

The guilt would be too much bear.

* * *

"Wake up."

Kyle didn't move. He felt cognizance start to return to him, but he stayed in his lying position, trying to remember what had happened before he had gone to sleep. It was a few minutes before he recalled why, exactly, he was lying on an unfamiliar bed, and why he was waking up in a room that smelled vastly different than the soft perfume of his room or the stale smell of the barn.

"Wake _up_, I said."

Oh. Of course. Eric Cartman. His plan.

Kyle pried open his eyes, wincing at the sudden brightness. Eric was standing in the entrance way, holding a frying pan. It was then that Kyle noticed that he was naked, except for his underwear. He let out a small yelp and pulled his covers up to his chin. Eric smirked annoyingly at him.

"Wake up and come to the kitchen. That is, as soon as you… get dressed," he said, his grin widening. Kyle glared at him, his cheeks reddening, as he turned and left abruptly, shutting the thin door behind him.

"Stupid fucker," Kyle mumbled, fumbling around for the clothes he had discarded the night before when he had realized he had no change of clothes for today. They were Stan's.

Usually, wearing them had infused Kyle with a special warmth, an unshakable feeling of certainty and power. Now, though, as he buttoned up the oxford shirt, he just felt hollow. Empty.

He tried not to think. It was probably the best thing to do at present. It wasn't like he could do anything right now, anyway. Now, he just had to live. And hope. And pray, although he wasn't really sure of how to do that. His family had never been very traditional. They had celebrated all the holidays, and both Kyle and Ike had been taught to read Hebrew, but that was about the extent of their observance.

He raked a hand through his mop of hair, and, deciding there was nothing to be done about it, laid a hand on the doorknob. Before pulling open the door, though, he closed his eyes. _Please help me,_ he thought desperately. After a brief moment, he opened his eyes and made his way into the kitchen.

Eric was there, sitting at the table calmly. The frying pan was in the sink. Two plates filled with scrambled eggs sat on the table.

Kyle tentatively sat down, trying unsuccessfully to meet Eric's eyes. His stomach gave a loud rumble and he hesitantly reached for a plate. When Eric gave no sign of objection, he started to eat, lifting the fork to his mouth slowly. There were not a lot of eggs- they had been spread out across the whole plate to make it seem like there were more.

"You're… you're going to work," Kyle surmised cautiously, after a while of tense silence, in which Kyle noticed that Eric was wearing a brown SS uniform. This did not help to improve the dark void that was growing in his chest.

"Yeah," Eric grunted. "So are you."

Kyle blinked. "What?" he said dumbly.

"You're coming with me."

A short silence.

"Uh, haha- are you serious?"

"Perfectly."

Kyle let out a soft, fake laugh. "Um, Eric?" he said, smiling forcedly. "If you haven't noticed, I'm wanted by the SS, and-"

"Lay off the ego. You're not thatgreat."

"What?" said Kyle, momentarily nonplussed.

Eric looked at him, bemused. "You know, there are a lot of people the Gestapo wants," he said pleasantly, as if he was talking about the weather. "Sure, you were smart for leaving your house and all, and I wouldn't advise you telling your name to people, but I highly doubt there are posters of your face plastered all over Germany."

"But if I go _into_ the-"

"You overestimate the SS. The people who I work with are mostly eager, blood thirsty college boys. They're all dim. Devoted as hell, though."

Kyle shook his head vehemently. "I'm not going into the… I'm not going there," he said softly. "I'm _not_."

"You have no choice," said Eric briskly. "You can't stay here."

"Why not?"

There was a slight pause, as Eric seemed to gather his thoughts.

"I can defend myself," said Kyle, taking advantage of his silence. "I don't need you to protect m-"

"It has nothing to do with that," said Eric impatiently. "This- I don't live in the safest neighborhood, if you haven't noticed, and it's not smart for you to stay home alone. It's not just you. I wouldn't stay alone either."

"B- but-" Kyle stuttered desperately, clutching at straws. "I'll just be in bed-"

"No," said Eric. "You're coming with me. That's it."

A queasy feeling filled Kyle. "I…" he trailed off weakly, feeling slightly sick. "I…."

Eric looked at him calculatingly. After a few seconds, an expression that could be seen as slightly compassionate crossed over his face.

"Are you _afraid_?" he said. Kyle didn't think he was trying to be mocking, but the words hurt him all the same.

"No," he lied, not meeting his eyes. "No, I'm not."

Eric stared at him for another minute, before getting up heavily.

"That's it, then," he said. "Come on. It's late."

Kyle got up wearily, pushing away his half-full plate. He wasn't very hungry anymore, anyway.

They made their way to the front door. Ironically, it was sunny outside. Kyle stepped out into the warm sunshine uncertainly, his stomach twisting. Eric followed after him.

They walked in total silence. Kyle kept his eyes determinedly on the floor. He knew that it was unlikely that someone would recognize him, but still. He couldn't help but feel very exposed, out on the busy streets in broad daylight.

They passed from the slummy, run-down part of Berlin that was Eric's neighborhood to the throbbing, pulsating city. Kyle felt extremely paranoid here, especially. He comforted himself with the fact that nobody would dare look twice at the companion of someone wearing a brown uniform.

He stole a glance at Eric. The boy seemed to sense he was being looked at and turned to Kyle, narrowing his eyes malevolently. Kyle hastily looked away. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Eric lapse back into thought. What was he thinking about…?

They finally reached a tall, dark building. Large swastikas painted on larger red banners hung from sparkling windows. There were no official signs that said 'Nazi Headquarters' or similar, but it was blatantly obvious that this was the place, from the identical brown cars parked in straight rows in the parking lot, and from the uniformed men that were trickling in one by one.

Kyle's stomach spasmed, and he had to fight to keep his food down. He wanted to go back- he would brave the hoodlums of Eric's neighborhood, he didn't care, they had to be better than this-

Eric looked at him sternly, as if he knew what he was thinking. Kyle felt like glaring at him for acting so superior, but instead looked away and forced his face to appear calm.

They were inside now, making their way through empty hallways that smelled of potpourri and cigarette ash. Everything was clean, sharp, and bright. Kyle looked around in horror-filled wonder. This was the place… this was where all the trouble in his life stemmed from….

Eric finally threw out his hand at the last door on the first floor. Kyle stopped short. His legs felt shivery, weak, as if they had turned to jelly.

Suddenly Eric reached forward and caught Kyle's hand in his own.

"Don't be scared," he told a very surprised Kyle. "I told you, I only care about myself. If this was dangerous I wouldn't do it."

"O-okay," said Kyle. His throat was suddenly very dry.

Eric let go of his hand and narrowed his eyes at the redhead. "Just don't be a pussy, Jew," he said finally, and then pushed the door open and strode in.

The office was dark and cluttered. It wasn't small, but it was full- the shelves were lined with thick books and thicker folders, all three desks were piled with paperwork, and bulky green sofas were crowded into the corners.

Kyle immediately noticed that two of the three desks were occupied. He fought to keep his calm as he eyed the two young men. They were both blonde. One had an apish sort of face and small, watery blue eyes. The other was carelessly handsome, with perfectly shaped brown eyes and a faultless straight nose.

"Morning, Cartman," said the good-looking one, nodding at him before turning his curious gaze to Kyle. He remained silent, though. Polite.

His companion, though, did not share his manners. He smiled widely at Eric, revealing crooked teeth, and loudly greeted him before asking "Who's he?" He jabbed at Kyle rudely.

"Cousin," said Eric offhandedly, crossing over to the empty desk and placing his cap down. "Matthew Cartman. Coffee?" he offered Kyle, reaching for a tray that was sitting there. Kyle suspected he was trying to ease up the tension in the room. Gratefully, he accepted the cup.

"Oh, this is Helmut, by the way," he said, nodding at the apish man, who was staring at Kyle avidly. "And this is Kurt." He motioned to the handsome one, who nodded at Kyle courteously.

"Hello," said Kyle, a little unsure of what to say. He sat down on the sofa and brought the cup to his lips.

"He doesn't _look_ like you," said Helmut, gawking at Kyle. Kyle nearly choked on the coffee.

"Shut up, Helmut," sighed Eric, sounding bored. "Family aren't always identical."

"I'm sorry about Helmut," said Kurt politely to Kyle. "He is, I'm afraid, a bit of an idiot."

Helmut colored but said nothing. Kyle forced a small smile and sipped his coffee again.

A minute later, a small, thin boy entered with a stack of papers. For some reason, Eric shot Kyle a warning look. Kyle raised his eyebrows and turned his gaze to the boy.

"Ah, here comes the Jew," said Helmut mockingly, sneering.

The boy and Kyle both stiffened.

"I'm afraid I… I find the smell rather offensive here," the boy said with difficulty. "Excuse me, Sturmbannfuehrer, but I must-"

"Continue working, Werner." Eric's voice was cold, Kyle noted in horror. He watched in terrible fascination as the boy swallowed hard and continued to shuffle the papers, laying an occasional few down on Kurt's desk. Kurt lazily reached for them and looked them over. He cursed as his eyes fell on one particular paper.

"'Communists preparing in case of war.' What a load of bullocks."

"Hitler will know what to do with those Reds," said Eric scathingly. "Thank God we have a real leader in charge."

Kyle noticed the boy, Werner, twitch uncomfortably. Apparently Kurt noticed this too, because a second later he said, "What's the matter with you?"

"N- nothing," the boy stuttered.

"Why did you-"

"Leave him alone, Kurt," said Eric easily, leaning back in his chair. "He doesn't want to admit that Hitler's right."

Kyle's eyes widened at Eric's comment. Werner, too, seemed to be angry.

"We're Germans, just like you," he snapped. "My father was a captain of his regiment."

"And because of him we lost the war," said Helmut, smiling wickedly.

Werner clenched his fists. "He saved several of his men in battle."

"Yes- fellow Jews. The rest he sold out."

Kyle saw Werner's eyes flicker with pure fury. The next minute the boy lunged. Acting without thinking, Kyle leaped from the couch and grabbed Werner before the boy could cause any harm. Helmut rose menacingly and advanced, only to be blocked by Eric.

"Enough- both of you," he commanded. "Werner, get out of here."

The boy obliged only too readily. He backed away quickly and disappeared, leaving Eric to restrain Helmut, who was breathing heavily.

"Filthy swine," snarled Helmut, throwing himself back down onto his chair. "I could have taken him."

"That's not saying much," said Kurt, going back to his papers. "Pathetic Jew was a walking stick."

Helmut didn't respond. Instead, his gaze fell on Kyle.

"You. Matthew. Why'd you hold him back, huh? Why'd you defend the little fucker?"

Eric opened his mouth to respond, but Kyle was quicker.

"I didn't defend _him_," he said through clenched teeth. "I was defending you. I didn't want him to hurt you." _I wish he punched your little monkey face in._

Helmut snorted. "Hah. _Him_, hurt _me_?" He laughed and sat back down, his suspicions seemingly allayed.

Kyle fell back on the sofa, his blood boiling. He wanted to get up and leave. No, he wanted to go over to Helmut and Kurt and give them a hard smack in the face, and then he wanted to go and beat the crap out of Eric fucking Cartman for being a hypocritical back-stabbing murderer. And then he would leave. And then he would find Stan. By himself.

He fought to control himself. He couldn't go over and slap the three Nazis he was sharing the room with, obviously. They would take him into custody for assaulting officers, and eventually find out who he really was and kill him. Although that probably wouldn't be so bad, because they would kill Eric too, for hiding him.

For a minute he foolishly entertained the idea, as it was the only viable way of having revenge on Eric. But then he banished it from his mind. If he died, he wouldn't be able to save Stan.

His eyes fell on Eric, who was scribbling something down on a piece of paper. Kyle's eyes narrowed. The bastard had really led him on. He had been convinced Eric was nice- rough, yes, but fair at heart. Now, though, he saw the truth. Eric was a bigoted, prejudiced, selfish asshole who had been acting nice for his own perverse reasons. That was all: no more, and no less. He had been stupid to think otherwise.

"You going to sit there doing nothing all day, Matt?" said Kurt, smiling affably. "Come, make yourself useful."

Kyle flashed him a very fake smile, got to his feet lightly, and crossed over to Kurt's desk. 'Matt.' Hilarious. What did Kurt think Kyle was, a fucking elementary school student?

"What can I do?" he asked, in what he hoped was a pleasant voice.

"Here," said Eric from his right. "Take these and alphabetize them."

Kyle turned and accepted the papers, his eyes boring into Eric accusingly. Eric met his glare and smiled unnervingly.

"Where should I do this?" said Kyle, injecting venom into every word he said.

"There," said Eric, pointing to a corner, where there was a chair and a small square table. "That's Fritz's place, but he's not here today, so it's all yours."

Kyle nodded and sent him one last icy look before turning and crossing over to the table. He sat down and started going through the papers.

Every paper was headed by a word, usually of a vegetable, and then was followed by a bunch of figures. Kyle had always been good with words. He worked quickly, and was done in record time. Eric was delighted.

"That was fast," he said, his eyes glinting with glee. "Always knew you were a clever one."

"It runs in the family," Kyle responded flippantly. Eric looked momentarily taken aback.

"Yes… well," he said. "There's not a lot of paperwork to do today, so unless you want to go with Helmut to the inquiry room-" Kyle shook his head vehemently- "Very well. You're free to do whatever you want."

"Can I look around?" Kyle asked innocently. Eric looked at him, brows furrowed.

"…But of course," he said. "By all means. I'm sure you'll find everything here highly interesting."

"I'm sure I will," said Kyle, smiling charmingly at him. Then he turned slowly and started to survey the room. His eyes passed over the posters hanging on the walls and he stepped closer to one in particular. It was titled 'Distinct Semitic Visages' and displayed three by three rows of male profiles. Of course, the faces were all coarse and sinister. The noses were overlarge and hooked, the eyes were small, dark, and beady, the lips were full and pouty, and the foreheads were small and sloped. The depicted males were all ugly and menacing- the archetype of an evil villain.

Suddenly Kyle heard someone come up from behind him. He spun around to find Kurt standing there. He had apparently gotten up from his desk to join Kyle in studying the poster.

"Unsightly fellows, aren't they?" said Kurt amiably. "Horrible, horrible…."

Kyle felt slightly sick. He turned back to the poster with a queasy expression gracing his face. Kurt seemed to notice this.

"Don't you worry about them, Matt," he said in a fatherly tone, clapping Kyle on the back good-naturedly. "Hitler'll take care of them, just you watch. Shouldn't concern a pretty Aryan boy like you." Kurt winked at Kyle. When this didn't seem to cheer Kyle up, he continued in a friendly tone.

"Look at yourself. Look- there's a mirror, right there. Almost perfectly straight nose… bright green eyes… red hair… clear skin… strong build-" here he gave Kyle a playful shove- "Sure, you're not the typical blue-eyed blonde, but beauty's relative, after all. You still look plenty Aryan. Which is better than those blokes can manage, anyway," he said, jabbing a rude finger at the males on the poster. "So lighten up. You're lucky you were born into the master race. Forget Jewish, imagine being born Russian- or _American_…." Kurt gave a huge, theatrical shudder, and then threw his head back and laughed loudly. Kyle joined in. Surprisingly, he didn't even have to force it. He just started chuckling, and then laughed harder, and harder, until tears of mirth were falling down his cheeks fast and hard. Maybe he was finally going insane. The hilarity of everything, of the irony of it all, was just so striking he couldn't stop laughing. He doubled over, clutching his waist tightly. Kurt was calming down and eyeing him strangely.

"You… you okay?" The young SS officer ventured timidly. Kyle breathed in deeply, trying to contain himself, and grinned broadly.

"Yeah," he said, wiping his streaming eyes. "Yeah, never been better."

Kurt smiled. "That was funny, huh."

"Damn funny," Kyle agreed, still grinning. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Eric's eyes linger on him. The sight just made his smile grow wider.

Maybe this whole Nazi-thing wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could put up with Eric for a little while longer. At least, until he found Stan. Then they would both run away to America, and be happy together forever. And maybe even flip off some high and mighty Nazi fucker the minute before their boat to the land of the free would set sail.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for yet another author's note, but I just had to ask… did anybody catch the irony of Eric calling Kyle 'Matt?' 


	8. Life is an Equation

A/N: Okay

A/N: Okay. I REALLY have an excuse for not updating now. There are two of them, actually: the first is that now I'm taking the dreaded FINALS. Anybody that's in a public high school should just know that they are really freaking lucky. Because I go to a private high school, where I learn Hebrew subjects too. So I am taking 26 EFFING FINALS. In the span of two weeks.

TWO WEEKS.

It's NOT FAIR.

And I suck at Hebrew subjects, too. Except for the actual language of Hebrew, 'cuz my Mom's Israeli, so we speak it at home. But all the other subjects are really freaking hard. Try memorizing five whole books of scripture PLUS all of the thousands of commentaries. Actually, don't. Your brain might short out.

Oh, and my second excuse? Hah. Well. I'll tell you. I got into this major fight with my father and when I ran to my room I said "Fck you." It was a mistake. But STILL. I said F' you to my FATHER. I don't think I've ever seen him look so hurt/angry/traumatized in my whole life. So now basically he's avoiding me. That's how angry he is. My loving, doting Dad is avoiding me. You can imagine how tense that is.

Anyhoo-- here it is!! Chapter EIGHT!! Dum dum dum

He drew his blankets around his thin frame, shivering slightly. He wasn't sure if he was shaking because of the cold (it was rather drafty in the house, as there was little, if any, heat), or because of all the deep, conflicting emotions coursing through his mind and body. Perhaps both.

He hugged his pillow tightly to his chest. It dimly occurred to him that this action was juvenile, but he brushed the thought away. Nobody could see him anyway. And for whatever reason, the pillow was oddly comforting.

He buried his head into it wearily and let his mind wander. Pain filled him- not real, physical pain, but emotional pain, which, in Kyle's opinion, was almost worse than the real thing. At least if there had been something wrong with him physically he could have fixed it, healed it- could've taken a brightly colored pill or some foul tasting medicine, and then Presto! He'd have been as good as new.

But now…?

He noted hazily that his eyes were filling. It was almost funny. He had never, ever used to cry. Ever. Maybe if he had stubbed his toe, some moisture would have developed in his eyes. But that was it. He remembered feeling nervous and uneasy whenever Ike would cry, never knowing quite what to do.

But now it was almost regular. He was unoccupied for a minute- a _minute_- and just like that a swooping feeling would develop in his stomach, hot bile would rise in his throat, and tears would be stinging at his eyes. It was as if he had turned into some wimpy girl.

He closed his eyes slowly. Apart from the warm tears starting to slip down his cheeks, he felt numb. Cold. Unfeeling.

_There's nothing I can do,_ he thought miserably, gripping the pillow tighter. _It won't help to just wallow in self pity._

But wallowing in self pity had never felt so good. Kyle had always looked down upon people who were so full of their own suffering- the ones who always wore black and who wrote long, winding poems about the world and it's unfairness. But he understood them now. Acknowledging the pain made it almost bearable. And it felt _so fucking good_ to just sit there and cry.

So he didn't move. He continued to sit there, crying softly, with the threadbare pillow pressed between his forehead and his legs. His body was frozen. His mind was frozen. The only signs of life were his tears, steady and warm and trickling from his cheeks to his chin to the pillow clutched ever so tightly to his chest.

Eric woke up early. He always did, always had- at least, since his father had died. Before that Eric had been a little brat. He could still remember himself- fat, obnoxious, and spoiled. But all that had changed when he had gotten The Letter from his mother. It was as if something had finally penetrated through his shell. He had decided, then and there, to live up to his late father's expectations. And when Eric Cartman decided something, he carried through.

That reminded him. He had decided that he wanted Kyle. So, of course, he had to carry through with that, too.

He emerged from his room, fully dressed for work, his mind whirring. How could he…?

He looked to his left, thinking. The door there led to his mother's old room. Kyle slept there now, and he couldn't bear the temptation. He quietly walked towards it and held the top hinge as he slipped it open quietly, so that it wouldn't make it's normal loud squeaking sound. He peered in through the small opening he had made. The sight that met his eyes shocked him.

Kyle had fallen asleep sitting, propped up against the flimsy wall. His blankets were draped around him, and his arms were wrapped around an old discolored pillow as if it was a long lost lover. His face looked weary and was streaked with the trails of dried tears.

Eric let go of the doorknob as if he had been burnt and watched as the door snapped shut. His head was pounding.

_He's taking it badly,_ he thought. _He really misses him._

He shook his head. He couldn't understand it. Marsh was gone- _gone_, and he knew that Kyle knew his chances of seeing him again were close to zero. It had been five whole days. Why couldn't the Jew just accept it and forget him? Why couldn't he just _get over_ Stan fucking Marsh? It was really starting to annoy him.

Oddly enough, though, he couldn't help but find Kyle's devotion to Stan strangely appealing. Because, of course, it meant that once Kyle fell in love, it wasn't easy to get him to forget his feelings. Which was awesome. He just had to figure out how to switch Kyle's devotion from Stan to-

Well, to him.

He made a quick decision. Retreating back into his room, he peeled off his uniform and changed into traditional clothes- beige pants and a button up oxford shirt. Then he went into the kitchen and called headquarters. The call went through right away.

"Charles Schwimmer," the person who picked up said, sounding official and commanding. Eric happened to know that it was a diminutive, balding little man on the other end.

"Gutten Tag, Herr Schwimmer," he said smoothly. "It's Eric Cartman."

"Oh! Gutten Tag, Sturmbannfuehrer. How are you?"

"Good, good. Thank God. Listen-" Eric opened up the ice box and took out a carton of eggs. "I'm not coming in today. Not feeling my best. Headache."

"Ach, of course. I hope you feel better."

"Thank you." Eric took a frying pan from a dust-filled cabinet and set it on the stove. Then he started to busy himself with cutting up garlic. He was using more and more of the vegetable lately: it was cheap, pungent, and instantly added taste to even the least flavorful foods.

"And how is your dear cousin today?"

"Oh, he's fine," said Eric airily. "Sleeping at the moment."

"Ah. Sleep is good for a young man."

"Yes."

"Very good, very good. He's a fine boy."

"That he is." Eric retrieved a lone tomato and some yellowing cucumbers from the ice box and started to chop them up. Herr Schwimmer cleared his throat loudly.

"Well," he said pompously, "I shan't keep you if you have a headache. I'm sure you want to retire to bed right away."

Eric smiled. "Yes," he said, continuing to chop up his vegetables. "Yes, I am feeling rather light headed."

"Mm. Alright then. Good bye. _Heil Hitler_."

"_Heil_," replied Eric, and placed the curved phone handle back on it's chipped metal base.

When he had started making breakfast, he had intended to make food for himself. In the middle of his cooking, however, it occurred to him that Kyle would probably be hungry when he woke. He threw in some extra ingredients and continued.

He finished a while later. Eric carefully placed all the food he had prepared in the ice box and glanced at the clock. It was seven: the market would be open now. He needed to go shopping desperately- the house was almost empty of anything even remotely edible. He had never been very responsible when it came to things like stocking up on food.

He took some burlap shopping bags from the pantry and left the house quietly, his wallet secure in his back pocket. It was a short walk to the market. Eric entered and started to purchase everything he needed. He was sure it would only take a short while to stock up on everything necessary.

Two hours later found him finally wrapping up. It turned out that he had needed for more than he had anticipated. He rubbed his eyes blearily and pushed the cart out of the thin, cramped aisle he had been roaming through and up to the front of the market, where a shriveled old woman sat at a large metal strongbox.

Eric unloaded his things on to the counter and watched as the woman surveyed his purchases beadily. After a good few minutes, she looked at Eric calmly and named an astronomical sum.

"What?" Eric yelped. "_How_ much?"

The woman repeated herself. Eric wiped his brow and pulled out his wallet, his mouth set in a thin line.

"Why've you raised your prices?" He demanded after he had handed the lady the money she had requested.

The woman carefully locked the bills away in the strongbox. "The war, dear," she said wearily. "It's hard on all of us."

Eric was just about to retort angrily when the woman suddenly jumped up.

"Oh no you don't!" She yelled. Her eyes were fixed on something or someone behind Eric. Eric whirled around to see what she was looking at.

A young, emaciated girl was exiting the store. She turned when the woman shouted and Eric suddenly noticed that the girl had been hiding a loaf of bread underneath her thin dress.

"Come back here, young lady," the woman said, beckoning threateningly. The girl, looking terrified, gave a small gasp and ran out the door.

The woman let out a frustrated growl and sat back down heavily. Eric watched, his eyes wide, as she wiped at her forehead despairingly and mumbled to herself so quietly he couldn't make out what she was saying.

After a minute or so of the woman just talking to herself, Eric cleared his throat loudly. The woman looked up, startled.

"Ah, yes," she said. "I'm sorry, the little brat-"

"Yes." Eric pointedly looked at his watch. "Well, if I could just have my things-"

The woman hastily threw all of Eric's purchases into his burlap bags and handed them to Eric. He took them, nodded briskly at her, and left without another word, stopping only to pick up a free copy of _Der Sturmmer_ on his way out.

When he arrived home it was already nine-thirty. He deposited all the bags on the floor with a loud thud and sat down at the kitchen table tiredly. After a while of staring, unseeing, at the chipped pattern of the table, his stomach grumbled. He got to his feet, removed the food he had prepared earlier, and carefully placed it in the oven. Then he sat back down and lapsed into his own quiet thoughts again.

At ten o'clock Kyle wandered into the kitchen, fully dressed, looking confused. His face was now clean and tear-free, thankfully.

"Aren't you going to work today?" was the first thing he asked Eric.

Eric blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it. "No," he said. "No, I took a day off."

"Why?" asked Kyle, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Why not?"

Kyle continued to look at him strangely. Eric met his gaze defiantly, until Kyle finally shrugged and flung himself down at the table. He sniffed.

"Breakfast?" he asked, surprised.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just- well, you don't really come across as the cooking type."

Eric smiled slightly. "Yeah, well. Things aren't always what they seem," he said lightly. Kyle looked at him, startled. He pretended not to notice and got up from the table.

"Do you want?"

Kyle nodded gratefully. Eric bent down, opened the oven door, and removed the now warm food, uttering a soft 'shit' when his finger touched the hot metal. He took a slightly dusty plate from the cupboard and scraped half of the Spanish eggs, home fries, and vegetables into it. Then he leaned forward and slid the food over to Kyle.

He watched, somewhat nervously, as Kyle lifted a forkful to his mouth. He needn't have worried, though; Kyle smiled faintly, swallowed, and looked up at Eric in open admiration.

"It's really, really good," he said genuinely.

Eric nodded, seemingly indifferent. Inside, though, he was disturbingly pleased with the compliment.

He crossed over to the counter again and took the pan that contained the remainder of the food. He sat back down and started to eat directly from the pan. He wasn't in the mood of dirtying another plate if it wasn't absolutely necessary. He would be the one washing the dishes, after all.

He jabbed his food half-heartedly with a old, bent metal fork. He suddenly found he wasn't very hungry anymore. His mind was still working at a million miles a minute, trying to figure out what to do. What his next step would be. He had to tread carefully; Kyle seemed happy enough now, but that was a probably just show. He was sure Kyle didn't want to display any sadness in front of him. The Jew would probably see it as a sign of weakness. He had in all probability put on some façade. And without extreme sensitivity, that façade could fall away.

Eric Cartman wasn't used to being sensitive.

His gaze fell on Kyle and stayed there. Kyle wasn't shoveling food into his mouth- he was too polite and sophisticated for that- but he was clearly eating heartily. That was a good sign. If he felt really bad, he probably would have been sitting there like Eric, playing with his food aimlessly.

Eric continued to stare openly at Kyle. It was funny. He looked nothing like the blonde-haired blue-eyed poster boys the Fatherland idolized, but he was… beautiful, nonetheless. Eric felt like a complete sap for thinking that, but still. He had to admit it was true. Kyle definitely didn't look anything like those 'typical' Semites on the poster hanging in his office at work. Although, Eric noticed, with amusement, his nose _was_ slightly bent. But it wasn't unpleasant. Not in the least.

Kyle seemed to finally notice he was being gawked at. His eyes lifted from his plate and traveled up to meet Eric's. His eyebrows creased and his expression suddenly turned defensive. "What?" he asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Nothing," said Eric.

_What the hell_, he suddenly thought. _Why am I worrying so much?_ He promptly threw all caution to the winds.

"Actually," he said loudly, "I was just thinking- do you wanna go out?"

"What?" Kyle looked surprised. Shocked, even.

"No, I didn't mean it like _that_," Eric corrected, realizing how his question could be interpreted. "I just meant- I want to get out of the house. I thought you might want to come along."

Kyle surveyed him cautiously, his eyes piercing. "Yeah, okay," he said, his tone guarded, but not unfriendly. "Okay, that sounds good."

Eric smiled, the sweet taste of victory in his mouth. He wasn't exactly sure what the victory meant, but it was a victory nonetheless. Lately he had been feeling a bit pussy-ish. A bit too much of a pushover. But at least now he had acted with confidence, and he had been rewarded. He was getting what he wanted, wasn't he? It was good to feel that control again.

He lifted a forkful of food to his mouth, his appetite returning slowly. A few minutes later he had eaten all he could. Kyle had finally finished, too- his plate was bare, scraped clean. Eric smirked inside and took it, placing both it and the pan in the small sink.

Kyle got up from behind him. "Are we going to leave now?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Eric impulsively. "Yeah, let's."

Kyle nodded. "Where are we going?" He inquired curiously.

Eric cast around for the answer to that question. Where DID he want to go…?

"The Spree," he said decisively, referring to the long, winding river that cut through Berlin. "I want to just go to the Spree and walk."

Kyle nodded and silently followed Eric as he walked out the door and into the glaring sunlight.

The streets were relatively empty. A comfortable silence reigned as the two walked through the narrow alleyways. They were calm and tranquil, for the most part, although Kyle was still a little jittery at being out in the open.

As they were just about to pass from the run-down slums to the brighter part of the city, a little boy ran headlong into Eric. Eric swore loudly. The boy looked up at him, apparently frightened by his towering figure and narrowed eyes. Eric couldn't help smiling at his fearful face and trembling lips. He was just about to tell the boy a thing or two when Kyle broke in.

"It's fine," Kyle said soothingly, lightly touching the boy's shoulder. "Don't worry, we know it was an accident."

The boy looked at Kyle. The fear on his face seemed to melt away and he grinned brightly. His two front teeth were missing.

"Thorry," he lisped quietly. He shot a quick glance at Eric before bounding away.

The minute he was out of sight, Eric turned to Kyle. "What did you do that for?" He demanded indignantly.

"What do you mean?" asked Kyle innocently. He started walking, but Eric stayed in the same place, arms folded. Kyle sighed and turned around.

"What?" he asked.

Eric glared at him. "You just let that kid get off scot-free," he accused.

"Um, yes," said Kyle, staring at Eric as if he was crazy. "He was like eight."

"So? The little asshole hurt me!"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Eric, you know full well the 'little asshole' didn't mean it. Stop being so immature and pride-hungry."

"I'm not pride hungry," grumbled Eric, but he finally moved. "You just have a bleeding heart, that's all."

"And you have _no_ heart. Your point?" Kyle said this lightly, but it still hurt. Nevertheless, Eric responded with equal jest.

"Hey, you're talking to the person who saved you too many times."

Kyle sarcastically begged for forgiveness, and their earlier argument turned into a big joke. Any tension that should have been there faded. Eric was relieved; he really liked being with Kyle, but he had this odd habit of screwing up every conversation _somehow. _And although he was quite used to people hating him- he had gotten that all the time in school- it really, really bothered him that Kyle thought him an asshole. Because he wasn't. Not really.

Well, not most of the time.

The light conversation continued to flow. Eric realized with a shock that he had never really spoken to Kyle before. He had screamed at him, and cursed him, and yes, even saved him. Kyle had come to talk to him when he found Marsh was taken away, but that was only because he wanted a favor from Eric. The two had never really just talked for no reason. And Eric found that it was quite nice when someone who didn't hate you (at least, not completely) had a conversation with you.

As they walked on the dirty riverbanks of the Spree, Eric watched Kyle carefully, trying to gauge how he was feeling. With every step, the Jew seemed happier; it was like a load was being lifted off his shoulders. Eric assumed that the fresh air was clearing his mind and making him forget momentarily about his sadness.

He breathed in deeply as Kyle chattered about the pollution of the river and how it was destroying Berlin's natural beauty. The fresh air was certainly working on _him_; already he felt better, springier, more optimistic. He wondered if it really was because of the clean air, or if it was because of the exercise, or maybe the sound of Kyle talking about some scientific research on pollution that he would never understand and never care in the least about.

A few minutes later, he came to the conclusion that it was all three. Added to the fact that he didn't have to go to work today (he used to love work, but lately, seeing as he was hiding Kyle, he was forever having guilt trips about what the SS was doing that prevented him from carrying out his job the way he used to), he felt downright exhilarated. Almost _numbingly _exhilarated.

They continued walking for the next two hours, Kyle blabbering about things that didn't have the remotest relevance to the war going on, Eric nodding like he was listening and adding in his two cents now and then, because he always liked to voice his opinions, even if he had almost no idea what Kyle was talking about. After that Kyle finally said that he was tired. Eric wasn't surprised, seeing as he was almost certain the boy had stayed up late the night before and cried his eyes out. He didn't say this, though. Instead, he nodded, and the two started to make their way home, elated.

That was when it happened.

They were entering the house, and Kyle was grinning like an idiot, literally beaming. Eric felt so good, so confident, that when he saw Kyle's lips start to move again, he didn't hold back. They just looked so unbearably soft. He leaned forward and finally, _finally_ kissed him.

It was like a million fireworks had gone off in head, all at the same time. This was what he had been thinking about- what he had been _dreaming _about. It was at long last coming true. And it felt _so fucking good_. His mind was screaming at him to push harder, and he was about to obey when he felt himself being pushed away.

Kyle looked up at him sadly. He didn't seem surprised. Only miserable. All the happiness that had been lighting up his face a few minutes ago faded.

"…I can't," he said softly, unhappily, his eyes begging Eric to understand. "I- I love Stan, Eric. I mean, I _like_ you, but I won't- I can't… it's not fair to him."

"But he's in the camps," said Eric angrily. Why did Kyle have to be such a trustworthy person?

He regretted what he had said a moment later. Kyle's eyes filled. He hastily tried to blink the tears away.

"I know," he said wretchedly. "I know. But- but if _I_ was the one sent to the camps, I wouldn't have wanted him to give up on _me_."

"He's probably dead," said Eric, hoping desperately this would convince Kyle. "Sorry to say it like that, but he- they don't like gays, the SS, and-"

"I know," said Kyle. His shoulders slumped and for a moment Eric was certain he had swayed him. However, a second later he looked up again and Eric could clearly see fierce determination in his eyes. He knew it was a lost cause.

Kyle seemed to sense he knew, because he reached for Eric's right hand and grasped it tightly in his own. Eric would have commented snidely on how girly and sappy this was, but he couldn't. Kyle's hands were uniquely small and graceful, and just feeling one of them tangled up with his thick stubby fingers left him speechless. Knocked out.

But as soon as he had registered the feeling, Kyle let go and left, disappearing into his room. Eric dully watched the door shut with a soft click.

And then he got really, really angry.

Not at Kyle. At Stan.

At fucking Stan-fucking-ley Marsh the fucker.

Those were the exact words that he used to describe Stan in his mind. He had given him a chance at life. He hadn't killed him, had he? He had just sent him to a camp. But now he was REALLY starting to grate on Eric's nerves. Now Stan Marsh was REALLY starting to annoy him.

But then he smiled. It was quite simple. He wanted Kyle. Badly. He was so much more sure of it than he had been ten minutes ago. Before it had been a stupid crush, frustrating, but not really amounting to anything. But now it was real. Now Eric was positive he wanted him.

And the only thing keeping Kyle from him?

…Why, Stan Marsh.

And where was said Stan Marsh?

Oh, that was right. He was in a camp.

And what was Eric's position?

He was a Sturmbannfuehrer in the SS.

Who were the SS?

They controlled the camps.

What could the camps do to prisoners?

Anything they wanted.

That was how the situation played out in his head- in simple question and answer form. No other shit flying around: just straight-to-the-point questions. And that was how Eric, very clearly, saw what he had to do. That was why Eric, very calmly, went into the room and fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, untroubled by Kyle's rejection or even by any feelings of guilt.

After all, life was just an equation. Eric + (Kyle – Stan) Happiness. Stan happened to be the one that had to be subtracted. Sucked for him.

A/N: HAHA!! For all you CxK fans, this is where IT starts. For all of you Style fans, don't worry. BOTH ships should just continue reading all the way until the end. That is all I can say. 


	9. The Kill

A/N: AAAAAHHH

A/N: AAAAAHHH!! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! I know I haven't updated in, like, a month and a half. And I know this update is almost pitiful. I'm really, really sorry. It's just that I was stuck in LA for with no laptop and no internet connection for most of the time. I hope you all haven't forgotten about me.

Good news, though… I will be starting to pick up the pace! That means the plot will be moving faster, and hopefully updates will come much quicker! Please, please review… I swear, it makes the difference between a three week and a three day update.

Kyle was sitting miserably on his bed when Eric walked in. For one heart stopping moment, Eric was sure Kyle knew what he had done; but then Kyle looked up, and his expression was so desperate, so naively trusting, that it just wasn't possible, and Eric could breathe again.

"Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked roughly. He had been intending to act sweet and understanding, because he knew those were two words that perfectly described Stanley Marsh, even if he hadn't really met him. But now, seeing Kyle sitting so dejectedly, his face drawn and pale and his eyes red rimmed, he just couldn't put up an act. Because he knew full well he wasn't sweet _or_ understanding, and he suddenly felt guilty for trying to pretend he was.

…This had never happened before. Eric Cartman had always been able lie to people without so much as a flicker of guilt. His inability to act fake in front of Kyle highly unnerved him.

"Can I speak to you?" Eric repeated loudly, trying to banish his thoughts by speaking over them. "It's important."

"Sure," said Kyle instantly. Then he seemed to remember something- no doubt what happened yesterday- and his air turned wary. Thankfully, though, he didn't say anything, so Eric plowed on.

"I was checking on Stan- his name was Stan, right?"

Kyle's eyes widened. His lips parted slightly in horror.

"No," he said brokenly. "No."

"So his name _was_ Stan."

"Is Stan," said Kyle, his voice high and desperate. "His name _is _Stan, Eric-"

"No, Kyle, I- I just got the call," said Eric gently. Funny, he hadn't even intended to appear sympathetic. It had just happened. That was a first.

"Wha- what did they say?" Kyle words shook and trembled.

"…He's dead, Kyle."

There; he had said it. Finally. He watched, slightly amused, as Kyle's face turned even whiter than it had been a minute ago. The boy's lower lip trembled, and Eric could tell he was fighting valiantly to keep his glittering eyes from spilling over.

He respected Kyle's dignity by exiting the room as quietly as he could, pretending he had not witnessed the beginning of what was sure to be a breakdown. He couldn't, however, stop himself from listening to Kyle's soft, muffled sobs form behind the closed door. For some unfathomable reason, he enjoyed hearing Kyle cry. And he didn't think the desire stemmed from the sadistic part of him alone.

No, there was more to it than that. Something about the vulnerability of breaking down and expressing grief, of the outpouring of raw emotion, of the primitive human reaction that connected all feeling beings…. He couldn't help but feel, in some perverse, twisted way, utterly fascinated by the sobs emanating from Kyle's room.

He listened as the cries escalated, unable to keep a small smile off his face. It wasn't that he hated Kyle- quite the contrary. But he still felt a quiet joy as he heard the boy's voice start to become hoarse, heard the soft sniffles turn into wracking, heart wrenching sobs before dying down again.

After a while, he got up and moved into the kitchen, where he started to prepare supper. Stan had, once in for all, been taken care of; he was expecting the call that would confirm that any minute now. Sure, it would take Kyle some time to get over his death, but Eric was confident he would move on. And when he was ready to do so, Eric would be there, waiting, with open arms.

The phone rang loudly just as he put the soup on the flame. Eric stirred the pot once, wiped his hands on his slacks, and reached eagerly for the phone.

"Eric Cartman," he said into the heavy black mouthpiece, doing his best to sound official when inside he was jumping for joy.

"Sturmbannfuehrer, it is done." The voice on the other end was reedy, eager to please. "We have fulfilled your request."

"What request, Dietrich? Be specific."

"My apologies," said the tinny voice. "We have fulfilled your request pertaining to Stanley Marsh."

Eric let out a long breath hadn't realized he had been holding.

"He is taken care of?" he asked, just to make absolutely sure there had been no miscommunication.

"Dead," Dietrich confirmed quickly. "Dead as a dog. I've seen him myself. Filthy gaywad."

Eric smiled. "Many thanks," he said formally. "This will not be overlooked. Your loyalty is appreciated."

He could almost feel the glee emanating from Dietrich through the receiver. Stupid idiot probably pissed his pants in delight. Shaking his head in disgust, Eric clamped the phone down on the man's profuse words of thanks.

His smile returned instantaneously. It was done. Stanley Marsh was dead. Finally, there would be no more complications. Finally, Kyle would be able to see that Eric Cartman was ten times the man Stanley fucking Marsh ever was.

They were made for each other, he figured. Kyle belonged with Eric. Eric just had to help him see that. But one day, Kyle would thank him on his hands and knees.

…Fuck. That made him hard.

Stan was tired.

No, that was an understatement. He was fucking _exhausted_. His dry eyes burned from lack of sleep, his arms felt like they were going to detach themselves from his body and fall to the ground… his whole body was trembling, shaking with utter and complete fatigue. He felt nauseous, sick to his stomach. The small piece of bread he had eaten only an hour ago was long forgotten. His stomach ached with hunger, a stabbing, shooting pain that never ceased to remind him of his malnourishment.

He finished sweeping (the Kochs insisted that he scour the house from top to bottom every day, even though it was never really dirty in the first place) and let out a long sigh before dropping to his knees as gingerly as possible. Rag in hand, he proceeded to scrub at the floor.  
It was made of stone, hard and bumpy, and he felt the jagged points of the rocks dig into his legs. But he persisted. He concentrated on the rhythm of his cleaning, trying desperately to distract his mind from his bloody knees.

Diversion came in the form of Frau Koch. Stan looked up when he heard the intimidating tap of her high heels on the stone and saw her strutting towards him. She was dressed to the nines, her dress frilly and pink, her wrists sparkling with countless bracelets that Stan suspected belonged to murdered or (soon to be murdered) inmates. Stan guessed she was about to go off and whore herself out to other officers. She did that a lot. As she neared, he became aware of unnaturally strong perfume and did his best not to gag.

"I'm going out," Mrs. Koch said after a long minute of her surveying Stan disdainfully.

Stan nodded, keeping his eyes lowered. He had made the grave mistake of looking The Bitch in the eye the first day he had worked for her. He could still hear her screams echoing in his ears, yelling about audaciousness and impunity. Stan had been confused as to why she had blown up like that, but now he couldn't help but wonder… was she afraid of looking her slaves in the eye? Did she fear the spark of humanity she might see in (gasp) a gay guy? A Gypsy? A Jew? A black person?

"Someone else is going to assist you with your work from now on," said The Bitch. Stan perked up to hear that. Finally, some company! Some human contact in this god forsaken place! He almost smiled, but quickly controlled the impulse. He was sure Ms. Koch wouldn't hesitate to change her mind about the second worker if she saw it made Stan even marginally happier.

"One of the officers will bring him here in a short while," continued Mrs. Koch. "I'm not going to be here, so I expect _you_ to brief him on his duties. Remind him that slacking off will not be tolerated, and any disobedience will be severely punished."

Stan nodded. The Bitch seemed to be satisfied, because she stalked off without another word. No slapping or kicking or verbal abuse. Stan considered himself lucky.

He resumed his work, even though Mrs. Koch wasn't there to supervise him. She demanded insane amounts of cleaning to be done every day, and if her requests weren't fulfilled by sundown, her husband retaliated cruelly. He had been victim to Mr. Koch's steel fists the first week he had been here, and had no interest whatsoever in experiencing them again.

He had just finished with the floor when the door was thrown open. Startled, Stan jumped to his feet, his heart hammering.

A brown-clad officer stood at the entrance to the Koch's cottage, his chest sparkling with countless medals. He pushed a thin, sickly looking figure into the room. The person fell to the floor. Shooting Stan a venomous look, the official exited, but not before giving the figure on the floor one last, swift kick.

Stan stood in his place, frozen. He watched in horror as the figure on the floor gave a small, pathetic groan and tried to stand up.

"Help me, would you?" The person finally said, after repeated attempts at getting up. This simple request shocked Stan out of his stupor. He scrambled to help his new partner up.

Once the man was upright and standing, Stan examined him carefully. He was pitifully thin, his ribs sticking out from underneath stretched, sallow skin. Long, shaggy blonde hair hung lifelessly around a thin, bony face. He was a sorry sight, indeed.

"I bet you feel really bad for me," the man suddenly said, as if reading Stan's thoughts.

Stan averted his eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring.

"It's okay," said the blonde good naturedly. "l would stare too. I must look like shit."

"A- a bit," said Stan, and then instantly wished he hadn't spoken. He looked up to see if the man was insulted. To his surprise, the newcomer was laughing.

"Eh, don't lie," he said, sweeping the greasy blonde locks from his face. "I know I look pathetic. What I'm wondering, though, is how you look so good. Because I got here only a week ago, and so far everybody I've seen looks worse than me. That, or they're dead."

"I don't know," said Stan. "I- I'm lucky, I guess."

"Hey, at least _somebody _is."

Stan couldn't help but smile at that.

"You are, too," he said. "Lucky, I mean. They only choose the ones they like for this job. It's easy, compared to what everyone else does. Just do exactly as you're told, and you'll live."

"Heartening."

Stan laughed bitterly. The man still had spunk. That was rare in Buchenwald.

"We'd better continue cleaning," he said after a while. "Like I said, if you do as you're told, you'll live. But if not, fear the wrath of the Bitch and her husband."

The man nodded. "What do I have to do?" he asked, sweeping his hair back again, to reveal twinkling blue eyes. Suddenly Stan realized two things.

One was that the man was not a _man_ at all. In fact, Stan would have been surprised if he was a day older than Stan himself. He was a boy. Just a boy.

The second was that the man still had hair. That was strange. Usually inmates had their hair all chopped off. Stan made a mental note to ask the boy about that later.

"Let's start with the windows," he said after a while. "Mrs. Koch demands that they be spick and span clean. So don't let even a mite of dust escape, because I swear she'll notice."

"What a bitch."

"Don't even get me started," said Stan darkly. He handed an extra sponge to the boy and started to scrub at a particularly grimy window. Silence fell, aside from the squeaking of the sponge on glass.

Stan always felt that this task was the most morbid of all. When he scrubbed at the windows, he was forced to look out… out at the gray death all around him, at the thousands of inmates plodding from place to place, sweating, working, occasionally being shot down or attacked. When he was mopping the floor or cleaning the couch, he could at least pretend he was just cleaning in a random house in the middle of Berlin. He could almost imagine the sounds of the cars honking down the streets, of the loud babble of pedestrians talking and haggling and fighting. But when he cleaned the windows, he was brought back down to the harsh reality. He was in a death camp. He was lucky to be alive. But thousands of others didn't share in his luck.

"Why're you here?" the boy suddenly asked from his right, interrupting his thoughts.

Startled by the question, Stan slowed in his scrubbing. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

The boy shrugged. "No reason. Just wondering."

Stan continued to work. "I'm gay," he said after a while.

"Oh." There was no hostility in the boy's tone. "And that's why they sent you here?"

"Yeah."

"That's horrible."

Stan didn't respond. He was suddenly reminded of Kyle. His eyes moistened.

"Why are you here?" he asked. He wasn't really curious, but he had to distract himself somehow.

"I forged tickets to America for this Jewish family."

Stan stopped working. "Really?" he asked, his eyes wide. "What happened?"

"They went to America. I got sent here."

"…wow."

"What?"

Stan resumed his scrubbing. "That's amazing," he said. "I mean, you saved a family."

"Yeah," said the boy.

"That's really bave."

"They were my friends," the blonde said, as if hadn't done something completely heroic. "I couldn't let them die. It's what anyone would have done."

"That's not true."

The boy shrugged and smiled. "It's what everyone should do, then," he said.

Stan nodded fervently, his admiration of the boy increasing tenfold.

"I'm Stan, by the way," he said, holding out his hand. "Stan Marsh."

The blonde shook his hand firmly. "I'm Kenneth McCormick," he said. "But you can call me Kenny."

Stan couldn't help but feel like he knew that name from somewhere. It was like a vague whisper in his brain.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"I was actually wondering the same thing," said Kenny. "But I don't think so."

Stan shrugged and resumed cleaning the window. There was one spot of dirt that was unnaturally persistent. He concentrated hard on getting it off,

"By the way," he said, "how do you still have hair?"

"What?" asked Kenny, looking confused.

"All inmates have their hair chopped off when they arrive… so why do you still have long hair?"

"Oh, that." Kenny started to laugh. "I died the first day I was here, and I came back to life with hair. They cut it all off again, of course, but then two days later I died a second time, and I came back with hair _again_. They gave up on it eventually. They think my hair just grows really fast. Idiots."

"What?" said Stan, sure he had misheard. "You _died_?"

Kenny smiled. "Forget it," he said calmly. "It's a long story, and you wouldn't believe it even if I told you."

Stan raised his eyebrows, but questioned no further. The windows were done, thankfully, so he wrenched his eyes from the bleak scene outside and reached for the duster. He decided to start cleaning the plant pots next.

Kenny mumbled something as Stan started to clean. "What?" Stan asked.

"Nothing," the blonde said. "I just- I don't know why, but I feel like I've heard your name recently… and I can't figure out-"

Suddenly, he dropped his sponge. It hit the ground with a wet splat. Stan looked on in confusion as Kenny paled a deathly white.

"Oh, shit," he said. "Oh, fuck- you're _Stan Marsh_."

"Yeah…" said Stan uncertainly, not catching on.

Kenny's eyes bugged out from their sockets. "Oh my God," he said hysterically. "Oh my God, they're going to-"

Before Kenny could finish his desperate statement, someone knocked loudly on the front door. Kenny looked as if he was about to faint.

"Play along," he whispered to Stan. Before Stan could ask him what he meant, he crossed over to the door and opened it.

A short, squat officer stood at the entrance. Although he was small in stature, his face bespoke such cruelty he was terrifying. Stan felt himself start to tremble.

"Which one of you is Stanley Marsh?" The man asked. His voice was cold and high and sent shivers down Stan's spine. Stan's heart started beating faster… what could this man want with him? Before he could even open his mouth, though, Kenny spoke up.

"I am, sir," he said.

Stan's jaw nearly dropped. His eyes widened as he stared at the blonde. What the hell did Kenny think he was doing?

The officer surveyed Kenny for a long minute before turning to Stan.

"Name?" He spat. Stan, panicked, looked at Kenny before answering. The boy was looking at him meaningfully. _Play along_.

"I'm- I'm Kenneth McCormick," said Stan shakily.

The officer nodded curtly. Then he turned to Kenny, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pushed him out the door.

Stan's mind whirred, trying to comprehend what was going on. What the _hell _was Kenny playing at?

And then he heard a loud gunshot from outside. Stan's heart nearly stopped. For a minute, he stood frozen. Then he ran to the window and looked outside, desperately trying to locate Kenny.

His eyes were drawn to the ground, and finally, he spotted Kenny. He felt the bile rise up in his throat, but he would not- _could not_- puke. Not here. He watched in utter revulsion as the officer gave Kenny's bloody body a swift kick. The blonde just rolled over.

He was dead.

_That was supposed to be me._


	10. Pain and Solace

A/N: Yes, I know

A/N: Yes, I know. I haven't updated. No excuse. I beg your forgiveness.

Lot of emo emotions in this chappie. Heh. Enjoy…?

Oh, and I've realized I've never put up a disclaimer. So, in case you're all laboring under the impression that I'm Matt or Trey… um, I'm not. I don't think either of them would call themselves 'PrettyLilJewGirl." That would just be lame. And totally gay.

KYLE POV

I lay on my cot, my head buried in a pillow. My eyes are dry- after crying for nearly a day, they've finally stopped tearing. I almost wish I could cry, though, because at least that's a way of coping with the pain. At least that's a way of letting all the furious emotions coursing through me go.

Attempting to clear my mind, I roll onto my back and look at my stomach, watching it rise and fall every time I take a shallow breath. My breathing seems very stilted, very forced. I start to feel slightly dizzy, so I close my eyes, and immediately feel the pain inside of me increase tenfold. I focus on it, determined to acknowledge it, and then let it go.

I'm nauseous, and my chest feels strangely empty. When I had first heard what had happened, I had felt my heart swell uncontrollably… but now it's like my heart has disappeared completely, leaving behind a dull, black void in it's place.

My chest isn't the only part of me that feels hollow. All my limbs feel shivery, flimsy… as if they have no real substance. But when I try to lift my arm, it falls back to the cot, heavy as a barbell.

There is a throbbing pressure in the back of my throat. I breathe in deeply to get rid of it, but that only succeeds in making me shiver spastically. And my throat isn't the only part of me that's aching… my whole body hurts, and I can't pinpoint from what area it's all stemming from. It's like something inside my soul has broken, but I don't know what it is, and I don't know where.

Frustrated, I open my eyes again. My room is dark. I had drawn the curtains closed earlier today to stop the sun from shining in through the grimy window. The light hurts my eyes… it makes me dizzy and woozy. I can't deal with it right now. I need the dark, _crave_ it.

I know an untouched bowl of soup sits by the door, even though I can't make it out now in the blackness. Eric cooked it yesterday, and I dimly hope he isn't offended I'm not eating it. It isn't anything personal- I'm just not hungry. Even the thought of food makes me feel sick. My stomach is not in any condition to be digesting now, anyway.

I feel like such a pussy. I'm laying here in the dark, wallowing in this strangulating sadness. I shouldn't be here. I should be outside, in the sunshine, pretending everything's fine and that I am strong enough to overcome this. I should be talking to Eric. I should be eating what he's cooked for me. Most of all, I should be grateful that _I'm_ alive… I should be grateful that _I_ have someone like Eric protecting me, even if he is a completely twisted asshole. I should accept the fact that the only person I'll ever, _ever_ love is gone, and move on.

But I know I'm a horrible liar. I figure there is no point in pretending to be anything other than a lovesick, broken little girl, because that's exactly what I am.

A sudden, soft sob escapes me, and the pressure on my throat is slightly relieved. With the cry comes sudden biting heartache, pain that threatens to smother me. It's finally sinking in. My mind is finally starting to digest the information.

And I don't think I'll ever be happy again.

The whole world feels like it's closing in on me. I suddenly can't see, even though my eyes are open, but I don't care… it's not like there's anything to see in my room, as shrouded in darkness as it is. And that's the way I want it. I don't _want_ to see anything. I want to get through this and there's no room in my brain for anything else now.

Raw, unadulterated emotion is pumping thickly through my body. I can feel it. It starts to choke me, and I quickly swallow before I stop breathing. After a moment, I'm not sure why I did… because not breathing sounds like bliss right now.

I don't want to think about him. I don't want to know that I'll never see him again… never see him smile, never touch his face. I'm scared that I'll start to forget. I don't want it to be true, but I know it is, and it hurts so badly. _So fucking badly_. I keep pushing thought away so I won't have to admit it to myself, but I know that soon I'll have to, and that almost makes me choke again. I can't do this, I can't deal with this… I can't. I don't want to.

The pain is worse than anything I have ever experienced. It's worse than when I thought my family had died on Kristalnacht, and that hurt pretty fucking bad. But this agony… it's so bad I think it's starting to numb me. It's too much. I'm still a kid, for Christ's sake. My brain is not programmed to deal with this much so early on in it's development. I pray to God that I won't break. I'm miserable, yes, but I still don't want to break. At least not more than I already have.

I don't know why it's hitting me so hard… I knew this was inevitable. I knew that there was hardly any chance of Stan ever making it out of the camps alive. I knew it well.

But I don't think I ever _really _knew it. Somehow, I had always pictured this fairytale ending- and although logic told me it would probably never happen, the stupid, optimistic part of me kept on hoping. I had never allowed myself to consider that Stan might die. I had never thought it possible.

At least he's in a better place, I tell myself, but I know full well that's the stupidest damn thing for me ever to say. Yeah, he might be in heaven or wherever you go after you die… but I'm not there with him. I'm stuck here in a world where everyone hates me and wants me dead, and the one person that matters is gone. Gone forever. There's no hope of him ever coming back.

I'm alone.

It dawns on me suddenly, and it frightens me. I'm alone. Nobody is there for me. Nobody even understands me. They don't know how I feel about Stan. Only Eric knows he was more than just my best friend, and he's an insensitive asswipe Nazi who hates gays anyway, even though apparently he's gay too, so that doesn't count. Nobody knows. And nobody ever will.

Even before I had gotten together with Stan, I had always kind of pictured him being with me my whole life. At the time, I hadn't realized that that was pretty flaming gay, but that's childish innocence for you. I thought he would never leave me. He was Stan, after all. He was there for me. He was my other half. There was no way you could split us apart. And you can't kill only _half_ a person. If I was alive, than he was alive, and I was happy; even if, in the distant future, something horrible happened and he ended up dying, I'd die too, so it would be alright.

Because Stan and I were closer than anything in the world. You couldn't hurt him without hurting me, and you couldn't make him happy without making me happy. There was no way. It was like one of those bullshit fairytales, only without the bullshit. He was the Yin to my Yang. He was the water to my fire. It was like our souls were somehow entwined... like they were both two parts of a greater whole.

Maybe that's the emptiness I'm feeling. Maybe the half of my soul that belongs to Stan has disappeared. And maybe I will always be only half full. Forever.

I can't anymore. Hot tears leak out from the corners of my eyes, and I let them fall gratefully. Ever teardrop is a tribute to Stan… to everything he gave me… to everything he was. To everything he _is_, because the pain he is causing me even after his death is proof that he lives on. Every teardrop is a testament to how much I miss him. And with every teardrop, the hole in my chest gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger.

I suddenly remember an incident that occurred when we were thirteen. I don't know why; it just floats into my head, and I'm forced to relive it.

Stan had broken up with a girl in our class, Wendy Testeburger. I still remember her name, even now… she had been such a large part of Stan's life that she was invariably a huge part of mine.

Stan had retreated into himself. It had been a terrible, terrifying experience for me, because Stan was, in my mind, the angel that was always smiling, the one that always made me smile. It was always _me_ that was depressed, or angry, or confused… and he was always the one that came and helped me out of whatever place I was stuck in. I had never seen him so broken before, and my mind couldn't comprehend it. It was almost like he wasn't Stan anymore.

I remember how he shut himself in his room and refused to come out. His mother tried everything, but nothing worked. I remember her panic, her tears… she didn't know who to turn to, she didn't know who to call. Stan wouldn't speak to anyone, he wouldn't come down for meals, and she told me that she wasn't even sure he was eating the food that she slid into his room everyday.

I offered to go up, and Stan's father tersely stated that there was no point, that his son was being juvenile and I wouldn't be able to help. "When he starts acting like a man," he had said, "He'll come out and you two will be able to talk all you want."

This led to a fight between Mrs. and Mr. Marsh. That was when I first realized how horribly nervous they were about Stan's situation; they fought right in front of me, not even caring that I was able to hear every word they yelled. Mrs. Marsh thought that I should go talk to Stan, that Stan and I were closer than anything, and that I could only help. Mr. Marsh adamantly said that we couldn't 'baby' Stan all his life, that he had to grow up and deal with his own problems by himself. This led to Mrs. Marsh screaming very unpleasant things at her husband, some of which involved 'masculine pride' and how it would end up killing Stan. Mr. Marsh paled, mumbled that his son would never hurt himself, but said nothing when Mrs. Marsh defiantly walked me up the stairs to Stan's room.

And then I went in, and sat next to his bed, and nothing dramatic happened for an hour or two. The only sound was our combined breathing. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and I could tell that he was crying, but he was trying to hide it. So after a while I gently reached out and pried his hands from his eyes. I don't remember what I said, only that Stan seemed a little better after I said it. Then I was silent again, but it was a comfortable silence, an understanding quiet that connected us, instead of one that caused tension.

And that was how that night passed. I ended up falling asleep in his bed, I think. I hardly remember anything else about that time- only that, the next morning, I told Stan that '_I love you, dude, and I want you to come back._' And the next day, he did come back, and we were even closer than before, if that was even possible.

And now… now I'm broken, now I feel like _my_ insides are being torn to pieces… now it's me who needs help, but nobody's here to help me. Because the only person that could ever manage to do that is gone. He is the reason I'm laying in the dark all by myself.

Not even by myself, because half of me is missing.

* * *

I wake up to the sun shining on my face. It's annoyingly bright, and I grumble and bury my head into my pillow, trying to delve back into peaceful darkness again. But it's way too damn light in here to fall back asleep, so I give up and crack my eyes open reluctantly.

Unpleasant memories of last night flood back to me, and a familiar weight falls on my chest. I look around the room to distract myself, and it's only then that I realize that something is wrong… firstly, the bowl of soup that was sitting on the floor right next to the door all yesterday was gone. And secondly, I know I closed the goddamn curtains yesterday. So why the hell are they open now?

I get out of bed, groaning as my limbs wail in protest, and pull the moth eaten curtains back into place. The sunlight ceases to blind me, and I feel marginally better than I had a minute ago.

I'm no rocket scientist, but even I can tell what happened here. Eric obviously decided to come into my room at night. It's not that it bothers me that he took my soup away- God knows I didn't want it, and I still don't- and I'm not even upset about the curtains. It's just the thought of a Nazi in my room when I was asleep that gives me the chills… even if said Nazi, while a complete dick to others, doesn't seem to have any intention of killing me in the near future.

Speaking of the devil… before I can make it back to my cot, the door opens, and of course, Eric is standing there, with another bowl of soup, a different one that yesterday, as far as I can tell. I glare at him, even though I do this a bit half heartedly, because he is being awfully sympathetic and I've never been able to stay angry at people for long.

"Oh, fuck it, Kyle, you shut the curtains _again_?" he says in exasperation, but I can tell he isn't really mad. I shrug- I know he doesn't really want an answer to his question- and sink back into the cot, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

"I made you soup," Eric says after a while. He sounds proud of himself for being so kind, and for a moment I wonder if he has ever been this nice to anybody before. I wasn't planning on talking- I'm really not up for it now- but I figure that such uncharacteristically sweet behavior should be acknowledged, so I croak a toneless "thanks."

If he was at all angry about the curtains, he seems mollified now. He crosses over to where I'm sitting with the blankets wrapped around me and sets the soup down on the edge of my cot.

"Are you going to eat it this time?" he asks.

I decide to be truthful, so I shake my head 'no.' Anger flashes across his face, but is quickly replaced by disdain.

"Don't be a pussy, Jew."

I can sense the contempt is a front, so that I won't see how angry he is by my refusal to eat. His words don't bother me, but I am suddenly, painfully reminded that Eric Cartman is still a hateful Nazi, no matter how many bowls of soup he makes for me. He still has way too much pride and fury and resentment swirling inside of him to really have changed.

And he belongs to the group of people who killed Stan. _My_ Stan. _My_ other half. My eyes narrow at him and now it's my turn to front, so that my heartbreak won't show. I still have some pride left.

Eric is surveying me keenly from his upright position. I suddenly feel painfully insignificant, and I hate that. Normally, this is when I would have stood up, so I could glare at him at eye level. But now I'm way too drained to do that.

"Kyle," Eric says finally, "why are you moping around like this?"

_Why am I moping around?_ What the fuck is his problem? I mean, why does he _think_ I'm 'moping around?' He told me two nights ago that the love of my life was murdered! What the fuck does he expect me to do, say 'Oh well' and then go on with my life? Of course, that's what a self-centered asshole like him would do… but I'm not that callous.

I shoot him a look that I think best communicates what I'm feeling- utter anger, contempt, and heartbreak all mixed together. I expect him to take offense, to storm angrily out of the room, calling me every name in the book under his breath. But Eric just smiles.

"Such a firecracker," he comments lightly. And even though this makes me even madder than before, I can't contain the blush spreading over my face. I really, really hate having light skin.

Eric's smile grows wider. I feel like kicking him. I'm sure he knows this, but he pays it no heed and takes a step closer to my cot, soup held in his outstretched hands.

"Just eat it," he said. "I'm sure He wouldn't have wanted you to starve yourself because of him."

How the fuck does _he_ know what Stan would or wouldn't want? My fingers clench tightly on the edges of the blanket, but other than that I make no move. No, I'm not eating his stupid soup. Thanks very much, Sturmbannfuehrer, but I'm not hungry.

Finally, Eric's face starts to show some anger. I'm glad he doesn't feel he needs to cover it up anymore, because really, we both know he's mad when he's mad, so it's kind of pointless.

"God_damnit,_ Kyle," he says furiously. "I fucking risked my life to save your stupid neck and I'm _not in the mood_ of you starving to death after all my work." His voice is harsher than I have ever heard it, commanding, and I know this is the tone he probably uses at work. This is the tone that probably got him to being a Sturmbannfuehrer. But I'm not impressed by force. I stare him down, the contempt never leaving my face. But I can't help feeling a little touched by his words. I can tell he cares, at least, even though I don't have the faintest clue as to why.

Then Eric sinks to his knees, so that he's eyes level with me. Wow. I never expected him to do that. He's not the equality type at all. If anything, I think he likes it when I feel inferior. My respect for him moves up a notch.

"Kyle, you have to stop this." His voice is softer now, more urgent. That was an abrupt change. "You're going to make yourself sick. I- I understand that you loved Stan-" my eyes glass over with tears, and I blink rapidly to banish them. I'm sure Eric notices, because a twinge of something that looks oddly like jealousy flashes across his face. He ploughs on. "I understand you loved Stan, but Kyle… he's dead now. He's not here anymore. And you falling ill won't change that."

His words ring with truth. He's right; I have to admit that Eric Cartman is right for once in his life. Stan is gone, and I can't change that. Stan is gone. Gone. I repeat this in my head like a mantra several times. And then I can't fight the heartache that bubbles up inside of me, and a single tear slips out of my eye. I feel it run slowly down my cheek, warm and speaking volumes.

Eric sees this, and for once, me crying doesn't cause his face to darken with scorn. Instead, he reaches for me. For one wild moment, I think he's going to wipe away my tear, maybe even kiss me again; but then his hand moves past my face and settles on my shoulder. I look at him.

"It's okay to cry," he says, and I nearly die of shock. Nazi Cartman is telling me it's okay to cry?

"You have to let it out some way," he says, as if he read my mind. "It's stupid to sulk and languish in your pain, but crying isn't like that. Crying is a way of coping."

His words strike me, and I feel like the rough exterior I've built around myself when he is around is finally crumbling down. The next thing I know I'm crying like a baby, tears running down my face like the Danube river. "I- I can't," I gasp. "I mi- I miss him so much, Eric-"

A strange emotion passes over Eric's face, one that I can't place.

And then he hugs me.

The move is so unexpected I don't even try to shrug him off. I just tense up, my eyes wide. This doesn't make sense at all… why is Eric hugging me? I thought he hates me. I thought he considers me a pussy Jew dog.

And then the compassion of his gesture reaches my brain, and suddenly I don't care that he's a Nazi anymore. I cry harder than ever, harder than that first, miserable night I had gotten the news. And Eric doesn't say anything. He doesn't call my a whiny little girl and he doesn't tell me to grow up. He just holds me, and for the first time, I really feel like he _understands._ There are no ulterior motives, no tricks… he's not secretly laughing at me. He really wants me to feel better.

I cling to his chest desperately, my head buried in my hands as I sob. His thick arms, so different from Stan's, are wrapped around my back, and he's silent, allowing me to pour out all my grief and anguish without disturbance.

Finally, my whimpers start to die down. There's still a part of me that feels hollow, and now I'm sure it will never go away. But it doesn't _hurt_ as badly as before. Now it's just there, like it's a part of me, and I am sure I will never, ever forget Stan, and that I will never, ever stop missing him.

But I know that I need to live.

I'm not sure I completely believe in an afterlife, but I know that if it _does_ exist, Stan would hate to see me miserable. He wouldn't want me to cry. He's made that clear time and again, ever since we were both in preschool… it kind of comes with the Super Best Friend pact. Dude, I don't want you to cry. I don't want to see you sad, because it makes me sad.

So I listen to Eric, and I stop crying. And then I pull back from his embrace.

He looks at me, and I think he has just realized that he's hugged a Jew. And not just any Jew… me. Embarrassment is evident on his face, and he looks somewhat fearfully at me, as if he doesn't know what my reaction will be.

I decide to put him out of his misery. I smile waveringly.

"I'm hungry," I say.

If you don't leave a review, I'll tell Eric to turn you into the Gestapo.

...Okay. So maybe I won't. But if you DO leave a review, I shall love you for all eternity.


	11. Traitor

A/N: Oh my God, it's been… what? Three months? More? I am horrible. I am an embarassment to all human kind. Seriously. I'll cut the explanation and skip to the groveling now. OMG I AM SO SORRY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FORGIVE ME YOU GUUUYS!!

And you guys deserve better than this semi-crappy update. Because you are all totally awesome. Your reviews make me smile so wide. I'm _super super _serial. Good news, though, I've got a lot of the next chapter already written! So hopefully, should come A LOT quicker than this update did. Hopefully. With me, you never know. dodges rotten tomatoes and garbage

SOULS ENTWINED CHAPTER 11

If Eric had originally thought that Kyle's rediscovered appetite was a sure sigh of a speedy recovery, his optimism was shattered soon enough. The boy seemed to be taking the news of his lover's death exceptionally hard. His moods were sporadic at best, if not downright unfathomable. On Tuesday, the day after he had started eating again, he had locked himself up in his room and had seemed to suffer a relapse; he hadn't even responded when Eric had shouted insults at him, and hadn't made a noise save for an occasional sniffle.

This withdrawn, depressed behavior lasted all the next week as well. At that point, Eric was almost completely convinced that he had made a grave mistake in disposing of Stan Marsh (an idea that until then had never occurred to him).

But then on Thursday, Kyle woke up and came out of his room before Eric even started his daily cajoling (which generally gave way to foul language and attempted manipulation) and ate breakfast… and then lunch, and then supper. The whole day he talked very calmly and seriously to Eric, and it seemed he was finally level headed once again.

He even _laughed_ when Eric, obviously attempting to show off his culinary abilities, ended up earning himself a nasty burn on his nose when a boiling slice of onion leapt up a good few feet from the frying pan. Eric, embarrassed, had started flinging nasty comments at the pale red haired boy sitting at the table. But Kyle had just laughed all the harder, and Eric had to admit that the experience, though humiliating, was also greatly relieving. He had started to fear that the boy would never recover, and although he told himself the thought of Kyle's decline upset him only because he had worked so hard in getting rid of Stan Marsh – a selfish, self-serving reason for sorrow- the honest truth of the matter was simply that it hurt him, somewhere in the depths of his black soul, to see Kyle suffer (especially because he himself had forced the suffering upon him).

Kyle's good (or more correctly, not overwhelmingly depressed) mood didn't wear off in the next few days. A week later, two weeks later, and still Eric saw no drastic changes in his behavior… and no drastic anything, for that matter. The days seemed to just slide by with a blurry sense of much awaited normalcy.

And then Monday came.

On that day, Eric was awoken not by the usual sunlight sifting in through his window, but by a shrill, harsh ringing. His eyes flew open, and his tired body sprang out of bed, immediately on the alert. He ran out of his room, down past Kyle's room, and finally reached the small kitchen, from which the piercing ringing was emanating. There, on the small left hand counter, sat a bulky, ink black telephone- the only way the SS could alert Eric immediately to an emergency situation, or communicate with him at all. That was the telephone's sole purpose: almost no one Eric knew actually owned a phone, and the few that did would never call him, certainly not at this hour in the morning.

He snatched the phone off the handle.

"What?" he croaked into the weighty receiver, his throat dry and his eyes narrowed.

"Sturmbannfuehrer! Sturmbannfuehrer, what is the meaning of the news I have just heard?"

_Oh no._ "…Who is this?"

"_Who is this_?" The voice on the other end was indignant. "It is Kurt, Sturmbannfuehrer Cartman!"

"_Kurt_?" Eric's eyes jumped to the clock hanging on the wall opposite him. Four thirty AM. Alarm bells went off in his head. "What the hell is wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong! What's wrong, Cartman, is that my has my flat been searched _without my permission_ by your subordinates!"

Eric's stiffened body relaxed, and he broke out into a smile. An angry Kurt was definitely not something he would wish on anybody at four thirty in the morning, but it was far better than what he had been sure he was about to hear.

"Your flat was searched?" he asked, trying to keep the raw relief out of his voice. "Why?"

"I was wondering the same thing." Kurt's voice was hard. "Don't play dumb with me, Eric. I come home and find my housekeeper sobbing to me about SS officers bursting in and searching my flat. I know you organize these raids all the time on officers you suspect of treason or guile… you recently searched Helmut's apartment, did you not?"

"Kurt," said Eric firmly, "I never ordered anyone to search your flat. I've only ever performed investigations on newbies, as, I'm sure, do you… and this is the first I've even _heard_ about Helmut being searched. I swear it by the fuehrer."

A long pause fell.

"…It… honestly wasn't you who…?" Kurt trailed off uncertainly. His menacing voice suddenly didn't seem so menacing anymore.

"It wasn't me, Kurt. Of that you can be sure. Rest assured my faith in you has never wavered." This was a lie, of course. Eric never had faith in anyone, least of all in smooth talking, handsome, obviously self-serving Kurt.

But Eric's words, spoken soothingly by a master deceiver, had the desired effect. Kurt's laborious panting slowed, becoming more and more even. Eric smiled, listening, and wished he could see the officer's face when it finally dawned on him that he had just portrayed himself as an amazing fool.

Kurt apparently did notice his blunder, as he mumbled a mortified, hasty apology and "heil" before cutting the connection as quickly as possible. Eric set down the receiver with a thud, his smile lingering for all of thirty seconds, then sliding off his face as fast as rain slides down a window pane.

This was not good.

Eric's brain worked furiously as he processed all the new, crucial information he had just received. Someone was investigating SS officers. Someone from within the SS. Someone who had already searched the houses of Eric's two colleagues, Kurt and Helmut.

…Searched their houses. Not their files, nor their offices, nor their bank accounts.

Realization hit him. It was all so clear, so mundanely clear. The SS suspected officers of harboring treasonous items… or persons.

Kyle.

A bead of cold sweat ran down his forehead. Eric wiped it away hurriedly, feverishly thinking. Of course the SS had searched Helmut first… he was by far the stupidest, the one most susceptible to be won over by a fat wad of bills. When that had come up with nothing, they had searched Kurt... Eric knew he wasn't the only one who recognized that the blonde was incredibly selfish, an alarm bell signaling a traitor.

And now those two has been searched… Eric knew very well who was next.

Immediately he was struck by a cold dread that shot up from the pit of his stomach. He fought to contain his fear, doing his best to rationalize. Investigations were not unheard of… the Gestapo trusted no one, not even itself. This could all be routine… and besides, who in their right mind would believe that Eric Cartman, Nazi poster boy number one, was a traitor? The idea was laughable. Eric himself found it slightly unreal.

Perhaps he was exempt from suspicion, then! His colleagues and himself were very different entities… and the SS, if anyone, knew how to spot a rising star. Namely, Sturmbannfuehrer Eric Cartman. To search his house…?

But even as he thought these comforting thoughts, Eric's worry didn't fade. He was playing with fire, he knew; one wrong step and he, along with Kyle, would both be thrown to the fiery pits of hell. One mistake and it was all over.

He couldn't afford to risk that.

Eric collapsed onto the nearest chair, his brow furrowed.

At a quarter to seven, Kyle walked in to the kitchen.

"'Morning," the redhead said tiredly, doing his best to stifle a yawn.

His eyes had dark shadows underneath them and his face was paler than usual, but apart from that he seemed normal… more normal, in fact, than he had looked in a long time. Eric grunted his acknowledgement at the greeting and slid a steaming plate of bacon, eggs, and potatoes over to Kyle. Kyle slipped into a seat at the small kitchen table, accepted the food gratefully, and, lifting his fork, started to pick at the potatoes.

Eric sat down across from him and started to tear into his own food, casting shrewd, appraising glances at Kyle every time he was sure the other boy wasn't looking. Kyle was taking turns between eating slowly from the potatoes and the eggs (to Eric's disappointment, his semi-depression had not induced him to eat the bacon) and staring vacantly into his plate.

The soft morning sunlight streaming in from the window, combined with the unusual paleness of his skin that day, resulted in Kyle's red curls glowing even more vividly than usual, and it took all of Eric's self control (and he did not have a lot of it) to resist throwing discretion to the winds and just staring.

The two continued to eat in silence, with Eric stealing glances at Kyle every time he felt he could get away with it, and Kyle staring blankly at his fork as it combed through the pile of almost untouched potatoes.

Suddenly Kyle looked up. Eric belatedly realized that his staring had been discovered.

"What?" Kyle asked defensively.

Eric, who had been gazing at him in a kind of stupor, quickly averted his eyes, and then looked up again.

"Hmm?" he said, feigning innocence.

"What were you staring at me for?"

"Do you want to go to work with me today?"

The words he had been planning to say to Kyle all morning came tumbling out in his haste to change the subject. He immediately regretted his abruptness, because Kyle stared at him as if he had just sprouted an extra set of ears.

"Sorry," Kyle said, in a voice that was chillingly polite, but that didn't sound very sorry at all. "Why would I want to go to your _workplace _again?"

He put stress on the word workplace, as if trying to remind Eric (and possibly himself) that said boy worked in the Gestapo. The idea that he would want to visit the headquarters of a group of people dedicated to the bloody extermination of his people was, to say the least, utterly ludicrous.

Eric didn't seem to be turned off by his rudeness. "You've got nothing better to do," he said reasonably, then recoiled. If looks could kill, then the glare Kyle was sending his way would most definitely be lethal.

"What?" he said, now angry himself. And _he_ was supposed to be the asshole. "What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?"

Suddenly Kyle seemed apologetic. His eyes fluttered closed, and the anger faded from his face almost instantaneously. Eric couldn't help but notice how much better he looked when he wasn't in a rage.

"Sorry," Kyle said quietly. "I'm sorry, Eric."

"What?" Eric was taken aback and slightly uncomfortable at the sudden, abrupt change in the boy sitting across from him.

"No, it's just…" Kyle trailed off, and he finally tore his eyes away from his plate and looked Eric

full in the face, his eyes burning with a fire that had long been absent. "It's just- I realize I never really thanked you for- … you know," he finished uncomfortably.

"Thank me for what?" Eric asked. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Of course he knew.

Kyle's eyes flashed with impatient annoyance, and Eric knew he saw right through his act. He nearly smiled with relief at the achingly familiar expression.

"For what?" he repeated sweetly.

Kyle gritted his teeth. "For… for saving me," he said, his voice almost inaudibly low.

"Sorry, I couldn't make that out, Kyle. What did you say?"

"For saving me, you-" Kyle all but yelled this, his face flushed with irritation. Eric took it as an encouraging sign that he had stopped.

"Oh, for saving you! That's all right, Kyle. It was nothing."

Kyle's lips set in a straight line.

"So will you come to work with me today?" Eric asked again. "It's a small token of appreciation for me risking my life to save you, isn't it?

"Why do you want me to come?" Kyle asked, apparently exasperated at his lack of sensitivity. "I could completely expose you! I mean, if anyone there finds out…."

"They won't."

"How do you know that?" Kyle shot back. "It's a bit of an unnecessary risk, don't you think?"

Silence.

"I don't understand… why do you want me to go, Eric?"

Eric didn't want to answer that. He cast around desperately for something to say.

"Er- Kurt asks about you every day," he finally settled on lamely. "He's actually quite annoying, I thought that maybe you coming…."

He trailed off, apparently realizing that he sounded ridiculous. Kyle seemed to notice this, too; he was staring at Eric with one red eyebrow raised and a funny half frown on his face.

"What?" said Eric defensively. "What did I say?"

"Nothing," said Kyle. "Nothing at all. You're rambling."

Eric huffed. "Well, _pardon me_ for rambling. I suppose some of us just aren't as eloquent as others- a travesty of justice, I know."

Kyle looked at him suspiciously for a full minute. Then he shrugged and resumed pushing around the bacon sitting forlornly on his plate with his fork. Eric waited a few minutes for the awkward tension to dissipate a little before asking Kyle again- almost pleadingly this time- if he would go to work with him today.

"Okay, okay," said Kyle finally, frustration evident in his voice. "I'll go with you. Happy?"

"Very," said Eric in his most dignified tone, fully aware that he had just made himself seem horribly juvenile and finding that he didn't care. Kyle was going to be out of the house today; that was what was important.

Eric watched Kyle play with his bacon a little longer before his patience wore out. Standing up, he snatched the plate peevishly from the redhead and scraped the now pulpy pig's meat into the garbage. Then he turned to the still pajama clad Kyle.

"You'd better get dressed," he said. "We have to leave soon."

Kyle's eyes looked downcast, but he nodded. He got up and left the kitchen without another word. Eric watched him go.

Five minutes later, Kyle emerged from his room, fully dressed. Eric gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval after surveying him. There was a strange look in the uniform clad brunette's eyes… one that could almost be classified as predatory. Kyle seemed to notice this.

"What?"

"Nothing." Then Eric threw caution to the winds. "You look good."

Kyle's face flushed. Eric couldn't tell if it was because of anger or embarrassment; he hoped fervently it was the latter.

"Come," he ordered, walking to the door. He heard Kyle follow him and couldn't keep a grin from spreading on his face. He wondered if he had gone insane. Hiding a Jew, and then walking him into the lion's den as the lions searched his house- and smiling all the while.

…Insanity was most definitely a possibility.

Unlike the first time Eric had taken Kyle to his office, the sky was overcast, the weather dreary and bitterly cold. The short blocks to SS Headquarters seemed to stretch out impossibly. Every heavy step Eric took caused the muddy, icy water laying in glistening pools on the sidewalk to jump up and soak through the bottoms of his pants, which in turn caused Eric to mutter a string of obscenities under his breath.

By the time the two reached the towering dark building festooned with swastikas, they were both shivering violently. Eric strode quickly to the doors and pushed them open, sighing with relief as the warm air from the building instantly enveloped him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyle do the same. He smiled. The temporary respite from the cold the building offered seemed to have caused Kyle to forget his being nervous.

The pair walked down pleasant smelling, immaculate halls, Eric striding forward, very obviously in his element, and Kyle lagging a few paces behind, desperately attempting to seem so. He wasn't doing such a bad job, Eric noticed. He didn't seem particularly nervous, except for his eyes. The bright green orbs were flitting to and fro, never resting, sending off a message that was both scared and disdainful, a curious combination.

"Stop that," Eric demanded quietly. "Stop moving your eyes like that. It's a dead giveaway."

Those eyes settled on his face now, and Eric noticed they were very intense. Like green fire.

_I'm so sorry for being scared, _theyseemed to say to him in Kyle's sarcastic voice._ I'm just terrified of walking down the halls of a building that was built with killing me as its sole purpose_.

"Stop that too," said Eric edgily when Kyle's eyes didn't move from his face. Their force- their unmistakable accusation- was starting to make him feel uncomfortable.

Eric Cartman didn't like to feel uncomfortable.

"Sorry," said Kyle softly, looking down. When his eyes looked up again, Eric read a very different message in them. _I don't understand you,_ they said very clearly this time. _I don't understand._

"Why not?" Eric challenged angrily, forgetting that no one had really spoken.

Kyle looked at him oddly. "Why not what?" he asked, confused.

Eric blinked. Then he shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled. "Sorry."

Kyle shrugged. _I don't understand you._

They had arrived at the door to Eric's office. Eric didn't think the polished wood had ever looked forbidding, but now it did. Odd. Perhaps it was because he had only recently discovered that he was very probably under suspicion.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room, Kyle right behind him. Immediately he noticed that one desk was missing: Helmut was absent today.

"Good morning," Kurt called to him from the far corner of the large office. He was looking through a bookcase stacked with files, crouching, with his back to them. He got up and turned, then stopped short.

"Why, it's Matt!" he said, pleasure obvious in his voice. His handsome, chiseled face broke out into a smile as he stepped forward. "Decided to visit old Eric again, have you?"

"Y-yes," said Kyle, his voice slightly shaky.

"Of course, of course. Well, I'm very glad. And such luck, too- Helmut called in sick today, so we're short on hands. A clever young man like yourself is exactly what we need."

Was it just Eric, or did his voice sound a little greedy?

Eric looked from the slightly blushing Kyle to the eager Kurt, and then shrugged. He walked to his desk, pulled up a chair, and collapsed into it with a loud groan. Through half-open eyes, he saw Kyle walk over to Helmut's chair and plop down, suddenly looking infinitely more confident than Eric had expected him to be.

"You two are soaked," Kurt suddenly noticed. His voice was tinged with amusement. "Didn't you remember your coats?"

"No," said Eric shortly.

Eric heard Kurt shuffle back to the bookcase filled with files. He breathed in deeply, and then opened his eyes.

"So anything new, Kurt?" he asked offhandedly.

"Not really." A short pause. "There was the German-American Bund Rally last night, of course, but you know about that."

"What's that?" It was Kyle who had spoken. He looked curious. Not scared, although Eric was certain he was.

"You haven't heard of it?" asked Kurt in surprise.

"Was I supposed to?"

"Actually, yes." Kurt chuckled. "Not as patriotic to the fatherland as your dear cousin, then, are you, Matt?" He winked at Kyle.

Why did that wink infuriate Eric so much?

"What was it?" Kyle asked again.

"Eh, nothing major. Only the biggest pro-Hitler rally there ever was in America."

Kyle's eyes widened. "Pro-… pro-Hitler?" he said, his voice disbelieving. "In _America_?"

"Yes, a bit surprising, isn't it? I suppose even some Americans appreciate the beauty of the fuehrer's final solution. The crap wants to get rid of the crap too, eh?" He laughed at his own joke. He was alone.

"Surprising," agreed Kyle softly. His voice had gone hollow.

It was remarkable, Eric suddenly thought, how much he could read about Kyle without the boy actually saying any of his feelings out loud. From his voice, from his eyes… even from the way he stood.

Now was no exception. Despair screamed loud and clear from every limb of Kyle's body. Despair that even the place he was yearning to escape to, the place that shone in his mind clearly with the dazzling light of liberty's proud torch, was in on the plot to totally eradicate him from the world.

"There were only twenty thousand people there," said Eric, looking at Kurt, but hoping Kyle would understand he was addressing him. "Don't redeem the Americans yet."

"Oh, I'm not," Kurt assured him darkly. "_That_ will take a damn lot more than a rally."

Kyle was quiet.

Time flew quickly after that gloomy conversation. Eric busied himself with piles of forms stacked neatly on his desk and with hushed telephone calls (hushed because Kyle would probably disembowel him if he heard exactly what Eric was saying). Kurt was working, too, occasionally asking a slightly subdued Kyle for his help with something he was having trouble with. Kyle was a fast learner, something Kurt had undoubtedly noticed and decided to take advantage of.

Eric listened with half an ear as Kyle calmly chatted about politics with Kurt. It was amazing, really, how the red haired boy could keep a level head. He spoke about the Fuehrer as would any young, idealistic German youth, heaping praises on the dynamic man that carried sarcasm Eric was sure he alone picked up on. In fact, it was Kyle who did most of the talking; Kurt mainly listened, and laughed occasionally when Kyle said something particularly witty. Eric had to fight to control his smile… if Kurt had ever been suspicious of Matt- and that wasn't probable, as he had seemed to take a liking to him almost instantaneously- now those suspicions were definitely expelled.

"Bring these to Herman Klapper, Matt," Eric dimly heard Kurt say. "He's two offices over. I'll be there in a minute- I've got a meeting with him." The blonde's voice sounded strange. Stilted.

Eric looked up discreetly, his brow furrowed. Kyle was taking a thick pile of forms from Kurt's outstretched hands. Kurt's fingers brushed his, seemingly by accident, and Kyle looked up, confused.

Was it just Eric, or was there something odd about the way Kurt apologized?

Kyle left. Kurt sat down again and drummed his fingers lightly on the surface of his glass desk. The soft, impatient thrumming filled the room. Eric's eyes squinted in annoyance.

"Can you stop that, please?" he finally asked brusquely.

"Ah. Of course. I hadn't realized I was doing that," apologized Kurt.

Eric grunted.

"How old is your cousin?" Kurt suddenly asked.

Eric froze. "…Why?" He asked, his voice soft. Dangerous. A sneaking suspicion was starting to settle over him. …But it was impossible. Was he becoming paranoid?

"No reason," said Kurt. "Only that, flattery aside, he seems far too intelligent to be a mere child."

Eric bristled. "He's _not_ a mere child."

Kurt looked up questioningly at this statement. Eric belatedly realized that his tone might have sounded a bit too possessive. Instinctive damage control kicked in.

"I mean, he's turning seventeen soon," he said quickly. "That's practically an adult, you know? And my family is known for growing up, aren't we? I do believe that I'm one of the youngest Sturmbannfuehrers the Reich has ever seen, isn't that correct?"

In his panic, Eric ended off every statement with a question. It didn't come out quite so authoritative as he had planned. Kurt seemed to buy it, though; perhaps Eric has over estimated how much he had given away in his defending of Kyle. After all, wasn't it natural for a cousin to stand up for one another…?

…God DAMN IT, this was so confusing!

"Ah, yes, yes, you are quite young yourself, Eric," said Kurt. "I suppose you do have that in common with your cousin."

"Among many other things," said Eric loudly.

"…Such as?"

Oh. Crap.

"I'm only asking because you two _do_ seem so different, you understand," Kurt continued. "I mean, for one thing, there isn't any familial likeness between you two at all, although, of course-" and here he gave an ingratiating smile- "you're both equally as charming, I'm sure. But you're tall, dark haired, dark eyed, and are built big, while your dear cousin…."

Kurt trailed off, but Eric could mentally fill in the blanks. Kyle was smaller, had a head full of bright red curls, clear green eyes, a soft smattering of freckles, and looked as foreign as Eric looked typically German. His voice was soft; Eric's was gruff. He was polite and Eric was brusque. There was no end to their outward differences… just as there was no end to the distinctions between their personalities.

And it suddenly occurred to Eric that Kyle was very, very unlike himself.

"Well," he started desperately, trying his hardest to come up with a good answer- and not, he suspected, just for Kurt, but for himself as well. "Well, perhaps outwardly we don't seem to have so much in common, but our… personalities have some similarities."

"Explain," said Kurt, looking intrigued.

_He's just curious. He's just curious. _

Invisible beads of sweat started to form on Eric's forehead. He swallowed.

"Well… we're both passionate about our opinions."

That was true. Eric was very vocal about his Nazi views. Even if perhaps those views were starting to fall apart before his very eyes. And Kyle was definitely vocal about his complete and utter disagreement.

"We both value intelligence very much."

That was a lie. Eric hated smart people. He always felt they were a challenge to his authority; stupid people were much easier to deal with. There were only two people in which he valued intelligence… himself- and…

And Kyle.

"And…."

And…

And what else? There had to be some other common factor that attracted him to Kyle. There had to be something in the Jewish boy that was like something in himself… basic laws of attraction dictated that. For two people to fall in love, there had to be some shared characteristics, some shared interests….

And then it hit him. Of course. The laws of attraction had prevailed once again.

Because, of course, in this case two people had _not _fallen in love. There was one person chasing desperately and even cruelly after another. Only one insane person had fallen into the pit; the other, sane one, feeling the complete contradiction of two opposing personalities, never would.

A hazy, unbearably heavy feeling fell over Eric. He didn't feel like his eyes had been opened, that he had finally found the truth- nothing he knew he was supposed to feel. Instead he felt a gaping, dark hole inside, the hopelessness one feels when one is certain that their one love will never be theirs. Eric wondered dimly if this was the blackness that Kyle had felt when he had been informed of Stan's passing.

A sudden wave of foreign emotion erupted deep inside of him. It took Eric a minute to realize that it was pity he was feeling. Pity, such a human emotion. Pity for Kyle, because now Eric understood the depth of the suffering the poor boy had undergone after losing his lover. Pity, utter pity, because at least Eric has brought his own pain upon himself; Kyle had done nothing. He had just had the unlucky fortune of Eric Cartman falling deep and hard for him.

_Is this what my love does?_ Eric wondered suddenly. _Am I that inhuman? _

When others fell in love, they brought light to the world. But he… he only brought darkness. He only inflicted undue pain. He was a demon, and Kyle was an angel. He was death, and Kyle was the martyr. He was the knife, and Kyle was the heart, pumping brightly, that provided life to it's body until it was cruelly stabbed to lifelessness.

Dimly, Eric heard Kurt ask him something. He found he didn't care that his partner's words were unintelligible. Instead, he concentrated on the strange, unfamiliar feelings pushing at his innards. Instead, he tried to get used to the fact that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he would not be getting what he wanted. Instead, he tried to deny that he was feeling more than a twinge of remorse.

As Kurt got up and left, Eric's mind pounded feverishly, waiting for an idea to pop up that would solve everything. That was what usually happened when he found himself cornered; a dozen step-by-step solutions lined up in his head, waiting to be acted upon. This time, though… this time he knew there would be no answer. There was no way to coerce someone into falling in love. There was no way to threaten or to force or to blackmail it into happening.

An obscure voice in the back of his head told him that, of course, he could force Broflovski to do what he wanted, what he dreamed of… but he banished the thought instantly, feeling slightly sick. Because for the first time, he didn't want the object of his affections to do something. He wanted him to _feel _something.

But nobody would ever feel _that_ for _him_.

Especially Kyle. Kyle was totally out of bounds.

Then why did he still want to try so hard…?

Eric shook his head. This was all insane. Kyle was a danger to his life- his _life,_ the one thing he valued before anything else! It was enough that he was hiding the boy in his own house. Falling in love with him was complete suicide. How long could Eric have hidden it from the Gestapo, anyway?

Eric looked down at his desk again, at the deep pine littered with papers. The expression on his face was the closest to hopelessness that he could ever come. Thoughtlessly, he fingered the forms on his desk, reading them without really digesting what they said.

Then he realized exactly what he was holding.

He started. His eyes, focused now, sped over the lines of printed words, his heart beating fast.

_This is it._

This was what he had been looking for! A solution to his problem. A painful solution, on his part, but that could not be avoided. With every passing second that he stared at the form, his confidence grew. He could do this- he was strong enough- he had to be. If it was true that he now loved the boy he had so selfishly rescued… well, this would prove it.

He looked the paper in his hands again. Quota for Exit Visas, it read. 100 only. Subject to change.

Eric abruptly stood up, his hands clutching the paper so hard in his white fists that he knew he would leave permanent creases. But that didn't matter now. He left his place at his desk and strode out of his office quickly, down the sweet-smelling hall, all the way to Herman Klapper's office… eager to tell Kyle the good news.

He stopped short.

Through the misted glass pane of the door, Eric could see that the room was empty apart from the two shadowy figures he presumed to be Kyle and Kurt. Herman Klapper was definitely not in his office.

And then Eric remembered something else… Herman Klapper was not even at work today.

Yes, that was right; how could he have forgotten? Yesterday Klapper had joyfully announced to his fellow officers that his wife had given birth to a healthy baby boy. He had told Eric and Kurt that he would not be coming into work the next day. How had that information slipped his mind?

Eric's heart started pumping at an unnaturally fast rate. Kurt knew that Klapper wouldn't be working today… he knew that his office would be empty. Empty… and perfect for a confrontation.

Perfect for an arrest.

The odd questions Kurt had asked him not five minutes ago flooded into his head, and suddenly Eric realized he had not over-estimated Kurt's suspicion. He had done exactly the opposite. Kurt had it all figured out. He was probably trying to take Kyle into custody now, without any interference from Eric. Then he would go to his higher ups and spill the beans about his partner… and then Eric would be shot on the spot for hiding a Jew.

Eric swallowed hard, noticing that he had broken into a sweat. He squinted through the blurry window. Kurt was moving closer to Kyle, his stance menacing… there was no mistaking the aggression in his pose. Eric closed his eyes. It seemed he was correct in his assumptions. Ironic that Kyle should be discovered just when Eric had finally been prepared to send him away for good.

Murmuring could be heard from inside the vacated office. It was mostly Kurt, with a few one line injections by Kyle every few seconds. Eric noticed with a heavy heart that Kyle's voice sounded terrified. Of course he was… who wouldn't be, if informed that they would soon be murdered?

_This whole fucking thing is my fault._

Eric opened his eyes again and watched the proceedings through the blurry window pane. There was a dull throbbing in his head, and his brain processed the fact that Kyle would soon be killed, and that he would follow not long thereafter. It seemed impossible. Unreal.

The murmuring has stopped now. Eric watched with horrified fascination as Kurt took a step closer to Kyle, raising his arm slowly. Eric couldn't make out if he was holding a gun or not. His blood pumped through his body loudly- any minute now, and there would be a shot, and Kyle's thin figure would crumple to the floor-

But Kurt's arm didn't stop moving. Instead, it settled on Kyle shoulder.

_What?_

Eric squinted as Kurt took yet another step towards Kyle. The blonde seemed much too friendly to be arresting someone, crouching slightly so that he almost eye level with the smaller figure in front of him. What was he doing…?

And then Kurt leaned forward in what was, unmistakably, a kiss.

A kiss.

Kurt was _kissing_ Kyle.

…Kurt was kissing _Kyle_!

The paper that just five seconds ago was clutched so tightly in his hands fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Adrenalin coursed through Eric's veins. He acted without thinking and threw the office door open, bursting into the room with a force he hadn't known he possessed.

Kurt had pushed Kyle against a wall. Now he whirled around to face him, his face an odd mixture of fear and anger. When he saw that it was Eric who had arrived, all color drained from his face.

"Eric," he said calmly. Oddly, the color was returning to his face quickly.

Eric couldn't respond. He glared at Kurt with murder spelled out in his eyes for a tension laden minute. Then he finally managed to spit out three words.

"What the _fuck_."

Eric's tone was dangerous. Chilling.

"Eric, I-" Kurt started to say.

Although Eric wanted nothing more but to tear him limb from limb and burn the pieces slowly over a fire, he held up a hand. Kurt stopped talking. Eric threw a withering glare at him before turning to look at Kyle.

The boy was sheet white. His startling green eyes were wide, his mouth parted; he suddenly seemed very small. Eric's eyes snapped to Kyle's fingers, pressed against the wall behind him, and realized that they were shaking.

Eric evaluated Kyle's shocked, defensive stance, his distressed expression, and quickly came to the conclusion that Kurt had acted alone. Kyle had, from the looks of it, been just as surprised as Eric himself had been.

"What did you do?" Eric growled at Kurt. "_What the fuck_ did you just do?"

"…Nothing," said Kurt. It was the most obvious lie Eric had ever heard.

"_Nothing._" Eric spoke quietly instead of screaming, knowing that a menacing tone inflicted ten times the fear that yelling did. "You expect me to believe it was _nothing_. Let me tell you, Kurt, we've been friends a long time, but that does _not_-" his voice finally rose to a shout here without him noticing- "make me blind _or _a gay-wad protector! Obviously you did _something_, and-"

"He- he didn't."

It was Kyle's voice, choked and faltering. Eric whirled around to face him, not believing what he had just heard.

"What?"

"He didn't do anything," repeated Kyle, eyes glued to the floor. His voice was somewhat stronger now- he seemed to be recovering from his trauma.

"'He didn't do anything?'" Eric roared. "Kyle, are you _defending_ this little fucker?"

"It's true," said Kyle, louder now. But then he looked up at Eric, and his expression was heartbreakingly, unfamiliarly vulnerable. Eric rushed forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, wanting desperately to kiss him but settling for a quick, familial hug instead.

He left his arm hanging around Kyle's neck when he broke away. He turned to Kurt again, the pulsing, mind-numbing anger starting to return. Eric opened his mouth to tell him that he was as good as dead, but the blonde beat him to it.

"Why did you just call Matt 'Kyle?'" he demanded.

Eric belatedly realized his blunder. "That's his first name," he spat at Kurt, improvising fast. "Kyle Matthew Cartman. Although it's none of your business… _homo_," he added venomously, his eyes shooting a deathly glare. _Put the bastard on the defensive and he'll forget the mistake I just made._

Kurt paled again. All the while he had been edging to the door. Now he placed a hand on the doorknob.

"Oh, you're not going to tell on me, Cartman," he whispered. "That's just going to incriminate your lovely cousin, because he _agreed_."

A/N: OH MY GOD!! KYLE YOU BASTARD!!!!! WHY DID YOU DO THAT?

Kyle: Only way to find out is to leave a review! stares significantly at you


End file.
